


And You Shall Be Eurydice

by Blueroses_23, Gearsmoke



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst/Hurt/Comfort, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Banter, Bickering, Biting, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Confessions, Creepy, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), Curse Breaking, Curses, Dead People, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Fantasy, Female-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Flirting, Horror, Lots of OCs - Freeform, Lovecraftian, M/M, Magic, Male-Presenting Aziraphale (Good Omens), Male-Presenting Crowley (Good Omens), Mayan Mythology - Freeform, Memory Loss, Metaphysics, Monsters, Mystery, Mythology - Freeform, Night Terrors, Oral Sex, Pagan Gods, Paganism, Pantheism, Possession, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sassy, Sex, South America, Temporary Character Death, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, This fic is very long, Time Fuckery, Zombies, dragging the Abrahamic God for filth, oscillating universe theory, we go hard in this house
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 142,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blueroses_23/pseuds/Blueroses_23, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gearsmoke/pseuds/Gearsmoke
Summary: The year is 1773, and various churches in Europe are in a race to convert the newly-contacted peoples of South America to their particular flavor of Christianity. But something strange has been going on: the missionaries keep vanishing and nobody knows what's been happening to them, not even Heaven or Hell. So, of course, they both had to send their 'best' Earth-side observers to get some answers....They're going to wish they hadn't. And so are the observers.(tl;dr Azi gets cursed by a Mayan god, and he and Crowley have to figure out how to break it before it's too late. READ THE TAGS.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 148
Kudos: 103





	1. Welcome To The Jungle

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to our beta reader, joy_shines!

  
The Guatemalan rainforest was hot, foetid and damp, cacophonous with animal calls and thick with insects. None of which bothered Aziraphale, who was standing at the edge of the clearing where they'd made camp the night before and staring forlornly down the road they'd been traveling - the only passage through the lush, unrelenting green. Oh, he liked plants well enough, but he was used to them being far more civilized and conscientious of his concerns. Since his priority at the moment was 'finding a missing human,' he had become far less tolerant of the obscuring foliage. His pale hair was done up in rolls above his ears and long enough to skirt his collar in the back, and he was ridiculously overdressed: a teal wool frock jacket and matching waistcoat with gold embroidery and brass buttons, moleskin breeches and a pair of soft thigh-high calfskin boots, both in a gentle caramel. He had a satchel at his hip, a polished walking stick in his hand, and a look of supreme disappointment on his face. On the whole, he looked entirely out of place, both psychologically and physically.

By contrast, Crowley was fascinated by the vast array of plant life in this jungle; there were so many peculiar colors and scents, and it was so very _warm_. The humidity, on the other hand, could get itself stuffed, as could the unpredictable, five-minute downpours that soaked their heads and turned the ground to slippery muck. He’d managed to escape the rains last night and sleep for a bit, curled up in his tent, and had only just stuck his head out when he sensed something was amiss. 

“Everythin’ all right, ange- er, Mr. Fell?” Right, they were using code names for this. 

Emerging fully from the tent, it became clear that the demon’s attire was significantly less couture than his companion’s, consisting of a simple wine-red shirt with baggy sleeves, high-waist black breeches, stockings that matched his shirt, and black, low-heeled leather boots. Normally, he’d also have on a pair of small, round glasses with smoked lenses, but he’d left them off to sleep. At the moment, his golden eyes were squinting at the suspiciously empty campsite, composed of four small tents arranged around a flat clearing, multiple stacked bundles of supplies and food, and a still-smoking firepit in the center.

“.... why is it so quiet?” Crowley queried. “That church human never shuts up for more than two minutes.”

"Mmn. Well, _that_ ," The angel articulated cautiously. "Would seem to be the problem. There are no humans here. They seem to have gone on without us. And our zealous friend has left his belongings."

“They _what?!_ ” 

The angel’s statement chased any remaining cobwebs from his brain, and he grabbed his glasses and rolled out of the tent. As he tried to tame his wild, sleep-wrecked hair (which had grown to his shoulders) back into a decent ponytail, a more thorough look-about confirmed that they were entirely alone.

“Gah,” he spat. “Where the Heaven is that man’s common sense? Running off in the jungle at night. Might as well just salt yourself and poke a leopard*.” 

Aziraphale frowned, equally perturbed. "I don't understand this. I wasn't away for more than twenty minutes, and when I returned they were both gone. Our guide's pack and clothes, however, are also missing, suggesting a voluntary departure.” The angel turned and put his hands on his hips, scowling at a kettle next to the fire. 

“Not a lick’a sense between them,” Crowley muttered, tossing a few more sticks onto the fire and encouraging it to flare up again. 

"What a bother... Oh, is there any of that brewing herb left?”

“Ah, the local 'tea'? Let me check.” Digging around in his own pack, Crowley fished out a small leather satchel with a folding top. “Ah… yep, should be enough for a pot.” 

Moving the kettle out of the embers, Aziraphale smiled and leaned to accept the packet. "Oh thank you, my dear. There should be jaggery in my provision pack, if you'd like." He poured hot water into a hollow gourd used specifically for brewing the herb. "In the yellow parchment, if you would.” 

_Don't pay attention to that smile. Just find the jaggery._ Shifting a few items around in the angel's pack, the demon found the yellow envelope in question and drew out two of the small golden chunks: one for each of them.

Aziraphale added a few pinches of dried and crushed herb to the gourd and stirred it in with a silver rod “Ah... I think I'm truly in for it, Crowley. If I - if _we_ don't find that boy, I'm never going to hear the end of it."

"Not your fault he ran off on his own like an idiot. Where’d he get to, d'you reckon? Can't have gotten that far."

"There's footprints, shod ones and bare." The angel took the sugar and, cracking the hard lump easily in his hand, he dropped only a couple fragments into his cup in anticipation of the drink, pocketing the rest. "And I found scuffs in the mud, in that direction. I... think someone took our Edmund.” Aziraphale fussed with his cup, using the rod to help melt the sugar. “They must have been watching, waiting for me to leave. It is my fault. If I hadn't been so keen for a cup- of _something_ , well." He gestured at the kettle dismissively. "Here we are."

Crowley gave the jaggery an experimental sniff and then broke off a side portion, putting the rest in his bag. Hearing the news that their ward had probably been snatched, he arched an eyebrow at Aziraphale.

"... you could've woken me, you know. I'd have gotten it for you." Crowley offered,

"It's not as if I knew I needed to guard the fellow, you can't expect me to know when someone's going to be dragged off in advance!” Aziraphale huffed, completely misinterpreting Crowley's words. “Ika-Atl was here when I left, and you were... well you were asleep. Honestly. There could have been an earthq- Look, the point is I didn't know he'd be in danger. I suppose we should at least _try_ to find him." He poured the contents of the gourd into their two clay cups, the brew dark and steaming.

The Fallen looked briefly baffled as he watched his overture fly right over that fluffy head. 

"That's not what I- forget it," he grumbled, scowling into his cup before blowing on the dark liquid and taking a sip. "But yeah, I guess we should. If only so our respective memos match up." Even if he had to fudge a few lines.

"Oh, yes. Right." Aziraphale held his cup in both hands. "Not to be contrary, but I rather imagine your higher-ups would be pleased with you if he's gone. Especially if he's been - well, we don't know what happened to the previous missionaries." The angel sipped his drink, twice. "No one in Heaven knows a thing about it. "

"Nobody in Hell talks to anybody else, but it's not difficult to figure it out. Young men pumped full of dogma and adrenaline get it in their heads to go 'bring the word' to these little hideaway tribes, and then they run off into the jungle with a bag and a Bible, and then they die." Crowley realized he was ranting. Phew, this herbal drink packed a punch; he could feel his eye-slits dilating just a tad from the caffeine. "Frankly, this probably would've happened to him whether we were here or not."

"Mn. You're probably right. You're usually right. Bugger it all, why do they always send _me_ on these futile errands?” The angel’s voice was rising in pitch and volume. “Go here, go there, watch some poor soul shuffle off - usually _painfully_ . No you can't do anything about it, yes you have to be there, no we won't explain why. I have just about had it, you know. I’ve half a mind to complain to… to _someone_." Aziraphale finished his drink. "We should go."

_Because Heaven is full of wankers_. Which Crowley very nearly said aloud, stopping himself just in time. He had felt a little ripple of... something when he’d heard Aziraphale asking all these pointed questions. He liked it. It felt more honest. 

This inquisitiveness on Aziraphale’s part was fairly new behavior--when they'd met before, even at the Globe Theatre for the opening night of _Hamlet_ , the angel wouldn't tolerate Crowley’s prying words at all (though they _had_ found other uses for the demon’s mouth at the time). Aziraphale, in fact, hadn't actually been asking those questions aloud - at least, not up in Heaven. However, his commanding officers knew when an angel was developing curiosity, had seen the germination of it in Aziraphale, and they had dutifully nipped it in the bud by cutting him off with snarky non-answers to get him to take his assignment and go. Which, in Aziraphale’s opinion, was far more frustrating than being ignored, and a notable contributor to his current frustrated state (caffeine being the other).  
  
Crowley knew, in a deeply twisted and personal way, just how Heaven felt about Asking Questions. But now that he was stuck down here, why not ask them? What could God do, make him fall again? At least now maybe he could track down some answers. 

"Where did you say you found the footprints? That's the direction we should head in." Hopefully the rain hadn't washed them away by now.

Indicating a faded trail from where the campfire had been, Aziraphale gestured north, which was the direction they'd been heading. "The prints follow along the road there, and then go off into the brush. I didn't follow it far, though. I didn't want, er, for you to wake up alone."

Hefting his provisions pack, the angel looked over his shoulder at the rest of the camp. "Should we just leave everything as is? I suppose it won't do much harm, maybe someone will come looking." He took the kettle and yerba gourd, though. No sense going without a warm drink in the morning.

"Neh, just leave it. We can always miracle supplies over to us, if we need 'em." Damn it, the angel did one nice thing for him, barely even a nice thing, and it still made Crowely’s heart do that annoying little dance in his chest. Shifting his pack on his shoulder, he started out in the direction that Aziraphale had pointed, with the angel close behind. 

Within a few dozen paces, the footprints turned into drag marks, and then went off the road, leading off into a barely-visible path through the dense jungle. Whatever happened to their missionary, it had happened fast. The scents in the area were several hours old, but Crowley tasted them anyways - no, nothing occult or ethereal was involved. Most likely scenario was that the guide had lured Edmund into an ambush... though, for what purpose? Crowley had some ideas, but nothing for certain. He had a machete with him, but was loath to harm the foliage. A quick glare from him, and the vines and leaves pulled away so he and his companion could venture into the brush- though one gangly heliconia did give him a little attitude when they passed by. Rude.

Aziraphale puffed and pushed along behind the light-footed demon. They _would_ have to go trekking off the road when he was wearing his nice travel coat, wouldn't they? But he was nothing if not game, and noting Crowley's apparent purposeful direction, followed his companion’s lead, stepping carefully over roots and tiny living things. He was quiet, doing his best to keep up, but the ground was damp and slick in patches under his civilized boots. His heel skidded in the mud, and he put a hand out to steady himself, briefly clasping Crowley's shoulder from behind. 

"Ah. Sorry." Aziraphale whispered, steadying himself and releasing Crowley from his grip.

"S'fine, angel." It was not fine, but he had to keep focused for now.

Being able to will the underbrush out of their way made the journey easier for them both, but the ground was still slippery and once they were fully inside the veil of trees, the air was so close and thick with water that Crowley's hair and shirt were drenched and sticking to him in a matter of minutes _._ That was something else to ignore. 

Where were the tracks? There was one, barely a heel print. There was another, just a few toes. No shoe prints. No blood. No bodies. Had Edmund just been carried off, then?  
  
The two ventured deeper into the dense foliage, and time seemed to slow to a crawl but the demon was fairly sure that at least four hours passed because the sun was going down. Or was that- _crack-BOOM!_ \- no, that was just storm clouds. Lightning flickered through the leaves, and then another crash of thunder came and rain began to come down in sheets. _Fuck my life._

Aziraphale sighed, sodden in seconds. "Oh, I suppose it couldn't hurt to..." Raising a dripping hand, he made a motion, as if plucking something from the air above, but nothing came of it. The celestial blinked in surprise and dismay. The rain began to undo his neat curls, unspooling them into long ratty tails around his face, rivulets streaming down from the tips and into his pressed collar.

"Oh." The angel repeated the attempt at a miracle, standing there in the downpour as if stunned. The ground trembled under the sonic bash of another thunderclap, bringing Aziraphale back to clarity. "We should probably find shelter." He'd hate to be discorporated by lightning and end up back in Heaven with neither his charge nor his body. His allowance would be docked for a century at least.

Crowley didn't see the gesture, but heard the surprised "oh" and turned to see what caused it. They both stood there for a moment, a pair of disgusted and bedraggled pups in the rain.  
  
And then the demon huffed loudly, turned back, and strode forward. "And where would we find shelter, angel? There's nothing around here but-!" He didn't finish his sentence, because he yelped in surprise when there was suddenly no solid earth under his leading foot and he tumbled forward, abruptly vanishing from Aziraphale’s line of sight, leaving naught but a couple of fluttering leaves where he’d been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *At this time, leopards have only recently been referenced in Spain, and Crowley has no way of knowing that jaguars are a Thing. He just knows that large spotty cats exist somewhere, potentially in the jungle, that can and will eat you.


	2. I Did Not Fall, I was Pushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the hunt for their lost missionary ward, the husbands trek through the jungle and find shelter - from more than just a storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates on Sundays!

Crowley hit the ground and rolled to the side, smacking into a sloped wall several dozen feet beyond the opening he’d fallen into.

"... fuckin' _ow_."

"Crowley?" The angel caught hold of a liana before approaching the edge of the hole. "Are you alright?” 

Luckily, the only injuries the demon had suffered from his tumble (aside from his sore ego) were a torn shirt sleeve, a scraped up left elbow, and a bruised arse. "I'm fine, I'm fine," he called back up, voice echoing slightly. 

“Stay there, I'll come to you." Aziraphale looked around for some alternative to jumping in, testing the strength of the thick vine in his hand as he evaluated his options.

"No, no, don't come down yet. Let me look around." Crowley snapped his fingers to summon a light - nothing. He blinked and then snapped again. Still nothing, and that simply wouldn't do; it was dark down here, even for a serpent. Muttering, he took off his pack and dragged out his tinderbox, found a still-dry sock and something stick-like on the ground, and tied them together to make a fairly bright, if short-lived, torch.

  
“Crowley? What’s down there?”  
  
“Yeah, hold on.” The demon took in a quick three-sixty view of the dark… cave? Not quite. The walls were too smooth and straight, and in places it was decorated with carved reliefs. There were also sculptural objects and pieces of broken pottery scattered about the floor. No, this was something humans had designed, and it was impressive. “Uh, I think it’s safe, if you can find a way down here. And bring some of those vines. Something’s, uh… huh.”  
  


"Something's what, dear?” The lianas were strong, fibrous things, capable of holding hundreds of pounds, and the angel braced his boot against a stone, tearing them handily from their anchors, looping them around his arm. He left the last one attached and held onto it as he made his way down into the cavern, grateful to finally find some respite from the rain (although the water eagerly followed him down and flowed into the tumbled rubble). “You were - Oh! Goodness, it's bigger than I expected!"

"Yeah, I'd swear it was a lot smaller when I first fell in." Crowley's mood was somewhat improved just from being out of the rain, but the makeshift torch's light was starting to burn out. It was time to make a proper fire. He’d already discovered a circle of stones with cold ashes in the center, and led Aziraphale over to it. "Here, break a vine into pieces and put it in here."

Once several lengths were stacked in the fire pit, Crowley touched the torch to it in a few places (the liana was wet, but the demon fully expected it to catch fire and so it did). He sighed in relief, teeth chattering very slightly, as the flame grew brighter and began to spread its warmth.

Looking around in the gradually increasing light, Aziraphale took in the strange decor. "How very odd. I wonder what this place is. There’s a serpent theme - did you see that, Crowley?" He glanced back towards his companion.

"Hard to miss it. Serpents, big ones, and l-l-lot of 'em had feather crowns on their heads." Crowley hadn't meant to stutter, but his teeth were starting to chatter more insistently. It was cool and dry down here, which would have been welcome if the demon hadn’t been soaked to the bone. This body was completely useless in critical times!

"Oh dear, you're shivering." The celestial moved to join his friend and then paused, recalling that he was still quite soggy himself, and frowned at his clothes. This wouldn’t do! Out of habit, he raised his hand to miracle himself dry, before he remembered it wouldn’t work. With a grunt of resignation, he took off his overcoat and waistcoat, spreading them over a flat stone ledge to dry. "My powers aren't working, I'm afraid. Shall I hazard a guess as to yours?" He could, at the very least, sit on the dusty ground next to Crowley and try to be warmer.

Crowley kicked his boots off and sat them upside-down by the fire to dry out, then slid his socks off and lay them next to the boots. "Yeah," he muttered. "No powers. Couldn't even summon a decent light. That's... that's odd, isn't it?" His glasses had gone missing when he’d found the entrance, so he was peering at Aziraphale with wide, unguarded yellow eyes. "Do you think maybe we're just... tired? Maybe we just maxed out our miracle quota. Or something."

"Why? Whatever have you been doing? I haven't used much at all. Barely a miracle all week." Keeping his clothes clean and his hair coiffed didn't count, surely. He had to keep up a minimum standard of appearance. Of course, at the moment he hardly looked like anything respectable in his damp breeches and blouse. All the same, he was already drier than the demon, and he pouted at how miserable his companion looked. "Oh! Ohhh, come here, you silly thing." Unfurling his wings (thankfully he could still do that much) and arching one toward Crowley, Aziraphale willed a soft heat to roll off the feathers.

 _Oh._ The demon noted. _Guess manifesting wings is on a different tier._  
  
Automatically, Crowley drew his knees up and scooted towards that offered wing, almost immediately feeling his icy skin grow a little warmer. _Ahhh._ That was even better than the fire.  
  
"Er, y’know… things like keepin' nasty animals away from the camp, or makin' sure the idiot missionary could always find food when he went looking, or keepin' the trail from getting grown over so we didn't go in circles, or keepin' the..." Crowley finished the sentence, but it was too low to be heard, as the demon had turned his head away and was focused very intently on wringing out his hair.

Aziraphale was honestly surprised. It was true: in their entire visit, not a single predator had bothered them, and they'd always had plenty to eat and a clear path to walk. But he hadn't been looking for the subtle traces of demonic miracles, being preoccupied with their journey and his own irritation with his superiors and a number of other things. "Oh, Crowley, really, that's... " He pursed his lips, folding his pale wing around the demon, actually letting the feathers touch him. "You know I try not to pry too deep into your assignments, but I really do have to wonder what you're meant to be doing here that would have you protecting and comforting a preacher."

Crowley still had the wherewithal to pout in Aziraphale's direction, even if he did enjoy the cocoon of feathers that was gradually drying his clothes. "Ya don't have to look that surprised, angel," he grumbled. "Look - vanishing missionaries aside, my job was to keep that poor fool distracted. Nobody downstairs actually _wants_ these secret tribes to start worshiping Her, or whatever version of Her they believe in, so I was supposed to make sure the man never actually... got anything done, preaching-wise." He snorted then. "Lucky for me, Edmund was able to trip himself up just fine, so I was just along for the ride."

"How... ironic,” Aziraphale replied thoughtfully. “Apart from the matter of missing preachers, I was _also_ told to keep Edmund away from the tribesfolk. They're simply not ready for outside contact, and if we allow missionaries to keep pestering them, it'll just drive them further away from any future hope of conversion. I was meant to let him wander in circles for a few weeks and then take him home.” After a pause, the angel huffed softly. “I suppose, in the long run, Heaven doesn't care that much about one preacher. But he was _my_ responsibility, and _I_ cared."  


Trying to be helpful, Crowley offered, "I mean, it's just as likely that he escaped his captors and got eaten by some large animal, or fell into a pit and broke his neck. And if we find his body, we can take it back to England, and you can technically report that your mission was a success!"

  
That... was much less reassuring than how it sounded in his own head.

  
The angel was quiet for a moment, nodded, and then asked, "How are you? Warmer?"

  
Crowley cleared his throat. "Ah- Anyways. Yes, finally getting warmer." He smiled a little. "Thanks. Really."

"Shush, don't." Aziraphale made a face. "It's just for the sake of our agreement." Entirely untrue, but he had to say that, had to keep up the show, no matter how glumly he recited the lines. "Perhaps you should try to sleep? At least until the rain lets up. I think my notebooks are still dry, I can do some writing." And if he happened to shift and rub against Crowley's back with the warm undersurface of his wing, that was surely an accident.

The demon made a wet, fricative noise, blowing air between his lips. He knew the Arrangement. He knew the lines; he knew the rules. But Crowley was ever and always a bender of rules, and here... for some reason, he felt like he was hiding in a dark corner of the universe where not even God Herself could see him. So maybe, just maybe, this time it was safe to go off-script. 

"Mmyeah, maybe." He put a few more liana chunks onto the fire and stretched his toes out to soak in the heat. "Does this cave feel strange to you at all, angel? It seems like our power is being muted, and it's... quiet here, for lack of better wording. And there’s nothing in it, either, not even lizards or beetles, and that's unheard of in a jungle."

The angel didn't answer immediately. Instead, he focused his mind and attempted to reach out, to sense what was around them. He found himself stymied, unable to detect anything aside from his infernal companion. No living things, no magic, no... He gasped softly. "Crowley. I can't hear Heaven! Oh, oh dear." Aziraphale's wings flicked upward, tugging away from the demon, his hands gathering at his throat. He looked at his friend with wide eyes, bronze coins in the firelight. "It's all silent."

So "quiet" hadn't been such an inadequate choice of words after all. Crowley repeated his companion’s experiment: sending his perception outward, he closed his eyes and really reached, trying to sense anything that might be outside the cavern, and... nothing. It was like he could feel his mind hitting an invisible barrier. Nothing getting in, or out. Not a whisper from Below.  
  
What in the world? Crowley’s eyes blinked open and stared disbelievingly at his friend. "Yeah... same here. Can't hear a thing, not even from headquarters. It's… static, it's nothing at all." Was this a trick? It had to be a trick. Surely, someone could see them here, never mind how remote it felt. He glanced over at all the etchings and paintings of sprawling, snakelike beasts, and had to wonder.

"I think that serpent is one of their gods," Aziraphale suggested, following Crowley's gaze. "I imagine this entire cave is sanctified in whatever that god's name is. False idol, of course, but perhaps there's more to it?" He stood and moved to touch one of the carvings, get a more intimate read on it. When his fingers came in contact with the graven image, the angel made a small, surprised sound and yanked his hand back. "Well. I don't recommend doing that again. Very unpleasant."

".... apparently not as false as you'd think, if consecrating ground for it shuts out both sides and gives you a shock." 

Well now, wouldn't Hell be tickled pink to know that other gods had power in the human world? That their Mother was not the only source of the supernatural? That She was not the be-all, end-all of deities? Why _that_ , Crowley thought with mounting glee, would drive Her absolutely mad! To know that certain humans, by calling on the power of ‘false gods’, could shut Her completely out of a space. How clever, how very clever, these humans were!

Aziraphale rubbed at his hand. "Not exactly a shock. More like numbness, like it was trying to absorb me. Very nasty. I don't think it's malicious-” He paused, registering something Crowley had said. “-‘Shuts out’? Do you think we're - oh."

"I- well, it sure _seems_ like they're shut out, right? My side can't hear me, your side can't hear you, and this is ground dedicated to some magical snake...bird...thing. Look, there's knives and incense and everything." Crowley gestured to the dusty artifacts scattered nearby. "For rituals, I bet." This was something New, and the demon looked positively giddy about discovering it.

Making a disapproving sound at 'rituals', the angel’s mouth twitched in that way it did when he was trying to not say what he was thinking. But then he had an idea… Aziraphale lowered his voice again, speaking in an emphatic, conspiratorial whisper. "Yes, well. I _could_ test the theory. If I were to, for example, say something that would draw a swift response from On High, and get myself into a bit of trouble if they're listening. Are you game?"

  
The demon perked up. They were running tests now? Crowley wasn't entirely sure what the end result of this whole discovery would be yet, but any chance to hear something blasphemous come out of Aziraphale's mouth was a chance worth taking. "Right, yeah, let's do it," he said with a grin, rolling into a sort of relaxed half-crouch. "But only if I get to say something, too."

With a clever twinkle to the eye, Aziraphale rubbed his hands together and put his wings away. "Crowley, my dear, do you recall Raziel?" He asked in a clearer, mock-conspiratorial tone.

He frowned slightly, thinking. The name rang a distant bell in his memory, far back to the time before the Fall when Crowley had another name. "I think so... the... the Keeper of Secret Knowledge or the like, right?"

"Quite so. He's one of the administrators of the Celestial library. And I happen to know of some volumes in his personal collection that anyone..." The angel chuckled, "Well, that I, at least, would just love to get my hands on. I covet them, you know. And being as your wicked nature has tainted me, I want to make a bargain with you, demon, to help me steal Raziel's most precious acquisitions. What do you say?" A pause, and he whispered dramatically, _sotto voce_ : “Between you and me, I think he's gotten too big for his britches, getting a pardon from the Almighty in the face of the Chief Archangels and all." Having said that, Aziraphale glanced upward, a twitch of anxiety passing across his round features. If he was being listened to at all, he would have pinged a warning by then. 

"Raziel got a pardon?!" Crowley exclaimed, straightening, and there was no acting required for the blend of emotions on his face. Thinking more made him recall that- "Raziel... Raziel, the bloody keeper of bloody secrets, got a-a-" A growl that ended in a hiss rumbled in his throat, and he looked genuinely angry, eye slits so narrow that they almost vanished. 

  
Aziraphale backed off a few inches, his own eyes widened. The celestial was not expecting that reaction - it was the sort of venom that could only come of a personal slight.

  
The demon turned to face Aziraphale again, calmer, but still seething. "Yes, angel, I'll help you get those books. I'll help you steal whatever you want from-" He turned his face up to the cave ceiling and hollered "-that rotten, piss-faced bastard I thought was my friend! And our capricious bitch of a mother, too, she can sod right off! Why did I get punished, but not him?! Huh?!" Well, if that didn’t get _someone’s_ attention, then nothing would.

Aziraphale pressed his mouth thin and waited for Crowley to fume himself out. Raziel was one of the second wave of Archangels, which made it an odd thing to think about - that Crowley should rail against the scribe in such familiar terms. "I wasn't aware that you knew him personally. My apologies for bringing it up." The Principality was quiet after that, waiting.   
  


Having gotten his bit of venting done, Crowley simmered down and sat back on his rear again, draping his arms over his knees. The minutes passed, and he felt... nothing at all? Not even a jab of disapproval from Below, nothing even stirred. Impossible- between the two of them plotting and blaspheming, somebody’s mischief radar must’ve started beeping, and yet here they were. Radio silence. Alone. His mind was racing through all the possibilities, all the potential of being in a place that was truly cut off from both Heaven and Hell. What could they do in such a place? What _couldn't_ they?

  
"I... er, sorry for the outburst, angel," he said after a minute, not making eye contact. "I know you didn’t mean anything by it." He saw that Aziraphale had been troubled, and fixing that was more important than listening for warnings.

  
  
"No harm done. In fact... my gosh.” Aziraphale chuckled anxiously. “The last time I heard anyone so much as talk about going into Raziel's private collection just to _look_ at his books, he was there within moments to chastise the poor angel personally. I would have gotten at least a remote telling-off by now... do you think we're really alone?” The angel’s cheeks took on a deeper shade of pink than usual. “Imagine, nobody listening! We could say whatever we wanted! Ooh… oh dear." Aziraphale faltered and swallowed, finding himself unable to actually say anything for a while. Taking some deep breaths, the angel struggled to calm himself down, with his companion watching him, curious and concerned.

  
  
“Only if you want to.” Crowley offered, hoping to ease the other’s anxiety. “No need to rush into it, if it makes you feel so uneasy. We still need to dry off and rest, and that storm isn’t letting up.” He nodded toward where water was still pouring in through the hole in the cave ceiling.

  
Aziraphale inhaled and exhaled slowly. “I suppose you’re right,” he said softly. “Though we're going to have to amuse ourselves somehow. Ah!" He pulled his smaller satchel closer and flipped it open. "I've been illustrating some of the flowers we've passed on our journey. Perhaps you'd like to try to put names to them for me?"

“Hm? Okay.” A flower name-matching game? Eh, it was better than staring at his feet. Crowley tossed more liana onto the fire and then scooted closer. Only the top of the notebook was slightly damp as the angel opened it up and flipped through the thick vellum pages to where he'd been doing some sketches in Cumbrian graphite. They were quite good by human standards, even if Heavenly standards would consider them merely passable. 

By Heavenly standards, Crowley _was_ a skilled artist, or had been once, and he was pleased by the detail Aziraphale had put into the sketches. "Ah, these star-shaped, round-y ones are orchids," he said, pointing but careful not to touch the page. "The ones here that look like a lobster are heliconia. And the ones with all the pointy edges are bromeliads. Fun fact: those yellow pineapple fruits come from these. Well, maybe not these exact kinds, but this..." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "... category."  
  


"Really!" Pineapples had been a novelty Aziraphale had only encountered once, and it had been a delightful surprise - both for its flavor and exotic tingling on the tongue.

"I swear it! I saw 'em being picked during one of my jaunts innnnn-I want to say, Costa Rica? Right off the ground like potatoes!* If it wasn't raining so bloody hard, I'd go out and see if there were any growing nearby." Crowley smiled, strangely content. Aziraphale wasn’t mad at him, and he found the fact that he was _happy_ about that oddly vexing.

As they chatted, one thing became increasingly certain: if anyone had heard them calling, no one was picking up. They were, possibly for the first time ever, completely Alone and could do and say whatever they wanted. In passing, Crowley thought it would be nice if the rain never stopped.  
  
Aziraphale, at the same time, was daydreaming about tropical fruit and parties, and pouted at his empty belly. _Mm. I could go for a nibble._ There were still some very basic rations in his pack, hardly the makings of a proper meal, and he didn’t really _need_ to eat. Then he thought back to what Crowley had told him earlier, about miracles and provisioning, and he put a hand on his companion's shoulder, trying to be gentle, but firm and reassuring.  


Crowley was still rambling on about the pineapples when he realized something had happened.

  
Hand. Shoulder. Hand on his shoulder - why was there a hand on his shoulder? 

  
Shifting, he saw that Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed on him, and his head went blank when the angel smiled and said, "Crowley, if we really are alone, I hope you wouldn't mind terribly if I were to tell you… oh, that you're truly quite sweet?"

  
Crowley looked at the hand, then at the angel, then hand, then angel. "I- what? Noo, that's not- you-" He squinted, even as he felt blood creeping up his neck. "Shaddap, you. Saying weird things all of a sudden."

"Saying perfectly normal things. Just things I'm not ‘supposed’ to say. Because they-” Aziraphale made an upward gesture. “- were listening. But they're not right now, are they? There's just us in here. So I shan't apologize. You _are_ sweet, doing what you did for that poor boy and… and what you've done for me. Thank you. There, I've said it." He sounded giddy, forbidden words slipping free like minnows escaping the weir.

This sudden gushing from Aziraphale was more startling than a fish to the face, and Crowley found himself completely unequipped to handle it. 

The little miracles were just ways to make the journey more convenient for himself (or that's what he planned to put on his report). Keeping them safe, keeping them fed, keeping that little pouch of brewing herbs full so Aziraphale always had something peppy to drink- that was all for his own benefit, surely. The demon was gaping, eyes wide as tea saucers as more blood started tinting his cheekbones; unable to maintain eye contact, he cut his gaze away and hid his mouth with a hand, making garbled noises.

"... oh dear, that was too much, wasn't it? My apologies." Aziraphale exhaled slowly and took his hand back, folding both together in his lap as he sat down again. "I suppose it would be. I've been keeping everything to myself, but I hate lying to you. I hate having to pretend we're only working together out of common professional interest." His tone was repentant, but he still refused to apologize for being honest. He looked over at Crowley, waiting quietly for the demon to work his way through having several centuries’ worth of suppressed admiration dropped on him. The poor thing. If the demon’s face could have turned a darker shade of crimson, his head might verily have exploded.

  
Praise. Crowley was being praised, and he felt... happy? Uneasy? A little sick? All of those? When was the last time he'd been thanked, been told something nice that didn't come with a disclaimer? _Okay, come on, think: what’s something you’d always wanted to say to Aziraphale, but never could?_ He turned back halfway, the jagged profile of his face outlined by the firelight, unable to look back completely. 

"I don't like... lying to you, either." His voice was low. "I like... I like doing things for you. I like the face you make when you eat something good, and the one you make when you're about to be a complete bastard and you know it."

The angel huffed, "I am not - I do _not_ \- Bah!" He gave up on denying it and simply chuckled, relaxing again, features softening. Crowley couldn’t see it, but he could hear it in Aziraphale's voice: the freedom, the honesty. "Thank you. I think... well, we have to admit that we're friends at this point, after _Hamlet_ and Edinburgh, and Pamplona, and, er, Constantinople."   
  


Crowley smiled, just a little, at the way Aziraphale had said ' _Constantinople_ '. There was also usually a certain lilt to the angel’s voice when he was being a bastard, which had crept into that last place-name, evoking a fond (if somewhat scandalous) memory. Cheeky bugger, that angel.

All the same, it was refreshing to speak to each other directly, instead of around each other. "I think you're right, angel. I don't exactly go off doing favors and keeping satchels of tea topped off for people who aren't my frie-" Balls. The ‘brewing herb’ supply was supposed to be a secret - but then, what value did secrets have between them? He cleared his throat. "Friends." 

"I only wish... Mm." Aziraphale cut himself off, watching the fire. "We can't stay here." His tone was subdued. "We have work to do, and the rain is already slowing. What if this is the only place in the world like it? Would you... come back to meet me here?"

"Anytime, angel." The answer was soft, but without hesitation. "Every time. Whenever you want. As long as you want." He didn't want to leave. Not yet. "Say the word, and I'll come to you."

Aziraphale didn't speak for a while, his face a well of regret and hope, _I know,_ those nimbus eyes conveyed. _I know, I have always known. We can't. I can't. This is all we'll get, so please let it be enough._ He turned his head and exhaled, a tremble across his curved shoulders. Of course Crowley would come; of course he would be there; they were trapped in each other's orbits. It was as inevitable as atomic decay and just as volatile. "It's unfair," he said.

Crowley faced the fire, but watched his companion from the corner of his eye, watched those emotions flicker across his face and then sink deep down. Always watching. Always wanting to see more, to know more. Aziraphale was the sun, and he the moon - nothing but cold darkness without the angel's light. Tentatively, he reached over and touched the hem of the other's sleeve - not the hand, that was too much. "Yes," he replied. "Completely, terribly, awfully unfair."

Aziraphale sighed softly. "I don't know what this is. I really don't.”

  
“What _what_ is?”

  
“Here, you and I. How you can look at me like that when I…” Aziraphale fidgeted, fingertips worrying the ochre fabric over his thighs. “... when I was wrong.” Saying it aloud was like a revelation. “Angels are not supposed to be _wrong_. Ever." Tears threatened, a quiver to the cupid's bow of his lips. "I knew in Israel. When I saw you weep for Yeshua.”

  
Golgotha was a brief period in his long life, but Crowley remembered it well. Yeshua had been misled and slightly bonkers, but he was bright and charismatic and only spoke a message of kindness. It had grieved the demon greatly to see him executed in such a gruesome and undeserved manner. And now another person important to him was suffering. _I'm here._ The tip of his index finger moved lightly down, touching the heel of the angel's hand, testing. _I'm here. Please let me be here for you._

  
A tremor of tension passed through Aziraphale's arm, but he didn’t withdraw. He didn't need to. But he was also not used to freedom, even that tiny bit of it, and he felt unstoppered and toppled, unable to keep himself from pouring out. “Not only was I wrong, but I knew that what I had been taught by my superiors was false. That was when you taught me to doubt. And because of that, I no longer belong in Heaven.” Aziraphale turned his hand outward, offering the cup of his palm to Crowley’s curious touch. Emboldened, he took a slow, deep breath, and pressed on. "No, that's not true. I never belonged, but I was a good angel, once. Do you know what I was when you met me? A Cherub. _Me._ " He chuckled again. Of course, all the gate guardians were Cherubim; it was hardly difficult to guess. "When I was demoted, I simply accepted that I had failed, and I was so willing to do whatever was asked of me to redeem myself."

As Aziraphale spoke, letting more of his words flow freely into this little pocket between worlds, Crowley's index and middle fingertips did his talking for him on that open palm. It traced the life line, around the thumb, and the heart line just above it. _My life. My heart. My sunlight._ Long fingers wove between the angel's shorter ones then, clasping lightly and refusing to let go. Ahh, it felt so nice... surely, just this once, it would be allowed. It would, and it was.

If Aziraphale were to fully grasp Crowley's hesitation, he would likely not have understood it. After all, he'd been the one to offer the oysters, his wing, his hand, even his close company at Will's party (to celebrate the full house attendance for _Hamlet_ ), when they were drink-hazy and warm together. Surely his willingness was obvious despite his laced-up facade, despite how he carefully avoided touch when they were at risk of being caught? But he may well have understood after all, because after a thoughtful moment, he continued: "It wasn't until you gave me doubt that I started to wonder what my superiors had been thinking.” Aziraphale’s tone had a sharp edge here. “I mean, really! Assigning me to a rank and position I was clearly unfit for and then chastising me for my failure.” His voice softened again. “But I allowed myself to think... that maybe, just… perhaps, it wasn't entirely my fault that I'd failed. Crowley... That doubt was the first gift you gave to me. And it's the one I treasure most."

The blood was rushing back towards Crowley’s face again, but he felt it coming that time and managed to keep his heart from thundering in his ears. Happy... he felt so happy at that moment that he could have dropped dead without regrets. Tempting others was his job, his purpose, but he was only halfway decent at it because there were so many questions buried in his heart, so many things about the universe that didn't make a lick of sense. When he coaxed the humans to ask those same questions, he secretly hoped they would find answers that could give them both peace. 

Aziraphale was different - Crowley had never actively tried to sow curiosity into the angel's mind. Yet, he saw the doubt growing there all the same, and he saw how much that doubt troubled his friend, tormented him, wrinkled his brow. Questions were dangerous for angels. Surely Aziraphale resented him for the probing, the prompts, the schemes... yet here they were, with the angel thanking him. His grip on Aziraphale's hand tightened. "Ohh, heaven, angel, I am so happy to hear that, I could cry," he groaned softly, gripping the front of his own shirt like he might fall down. "I thought for sure that you hated me for that."

"There was a time, a long time, when I felt something akin to hatred," Aziraphale admitted ruefully. Several centuries, in fact, where he'd avoided the demon because of it. "I blamed you, I was furious... I didn't understand. I thought you'd ruined me, that I'd fall or maybe I'd just explode like a glutted tick. I was terrified, because I had to forge brand new tools for myself simply to grasp what you had given me, and then I had to learn to use it responsibly. And... it was painful, and it took a long time, but I have. You... didn't you see it? When I invited you to the Globe, you must have seen it." 

He had not only been happy, standing there in the theatre, all puffed up like a pigeon. He had been _unafraid_.

So there _had_ been some resentment, some negative feelings floating about as Aziraphale adjusted to his new perspective. Crowley could live with that. It was logical. And the angel was right: when he'd seen Aziraphale at the premiere, primped and proper, he nearly stopped because of that fearlessness. It radiated off him. It suited him. It made the demon's instincts roar in attraction and cower in terror - not of Aziraphale, but of his own impulses.  
  
"I saw it," he admitted. "You were... something had shifted. You stood differently, you moved differently, you... looked me in the eye." At the afterparty, he'd wanted to tear that frilly outfit off in pieces; he'd settled for an intense round of kissing and pawing when Aziraphale had gotten affectionate after a few too many cups.

"I'm very glad you came out that day. And I suppose quite a few things came out in the evening, as well." Aziraphale gave the demon a familiar sidelong look, sly-shy and lip-bitten. "I... do remember that, you know."

"You-" Ghh, that look. Oh, Lord Below. Steam was going to start rising from the top of his head in a moment. "Wait, really? That was possibly the most drunk either of us had ever been, at that point. I had trouble remembering who I was a few times."

Aziraphale swallowed and cleared his throat (it was the dust, of course). His ears were growing hot and pink, and he looked wholly the image of chagrin. "I might have been tempering the effect with a minor miracle."

"You what." The words were grumpy, but he was grinning. "Bloody hell. You are completely uncouth sometimes, angel." 

"Well excuse me, but you were already utterly sloshed, and I thought, well, _I_ thought I should stay at least sober enough to take us back to my flat if you passed out. Or if something went awry at the party, what with how some of those young ladies were eyeing you!" Was he jealous? Surely not. "Someone had to be responsible."

"Mhm. Responsible." Crowley chuckled. He did remember the many covetous human gazes that had lingered on his body that evening. "As I recall, they weren’t the only ones eyeing me." He playfully nudged the angel's calf with his foot. "Is that why you dragged me off? To save me from those wicked ladies?"

The angel's tone took on a familiar smugness. "They had nefarious designs on your virtue."

Crowley cackled. "Oh yes, gracious me! God save my _virtue_. Whatever would I have done without you?"

Laughing as well, Aziraphale made a flapping gesture with his hand. "I never said I was _sober_ , just not as drunk as you were - oh, my goodness. And I wasn't sure if you'd made any headway on the whole _sex thing_ since we had that talk about the unicorns. I do think you've put that to rights."

The mention of the unicorns made him wheeze a bit. "For Hell's sake, angel, you had to bring up the damn unicorns. Did you think I was going to see a naked woman and ask for an instruction booklet?"

"I didn't know!" The angel laughed again. "I was entirely convinced they'd take you somewhere and strip you and you'd be all..." He made a smooth, rounded gesture with his palm. "Mnh, you know… and there would be screaming and chaos and- and that just-” He put on an air of uptight propriety. “Well, it would have ruined the party."

There was a very soft smack of skin to skin as Crowley's palm met his own face and stayed there for a moment, before the fingers parted to show one eye trying and failing to glare at Aziraphale. "I'd already had made an _effort_ for myself that night, but thank you so much for that resounding vote of confidence, you absolute mess."

“That became obvious about twenty minutes later,” the celestial muttered, though he had the good grace to look genuinely abashed for a change. "And... anyway, I hadn't."

Ah, right - twenty minutes, another drink, and a small guest room later, quite a bit about Crowley's body had become obvious. "No? Well. I supposed that's not so odd for us."  
  


"Well I... haven't needed it since Rome. Just seemed a liability. So long as I'm not going to a public bath-house, it's easier to, well, travel light." He gave Crowley an odd look, wondering why he’d been manifesting such a thing at the time. The curiosity flickered and faded when he felt the weight of the demon's apparent disappointment in him. "You know I was just watching out for you, dear, don't you? Virtue or otherwise, I wouldn't let any harm come to you." 

"I- yes, angel, I know." Crowley saw that uncertainty creeping back in and softened. Wanting to soothe it, he gave the angel's hand a gentle squeeze. (They were still holding hands. Ah, so nice.) "Even if your methods are peculiar, you're always, _always_ looking out for me. It's one of those things that I like about you: how protective you are." Without thinking, he drew their joined hands up and kissed Aziraphale's knuckles with great affection.

The angel made a small, breathy sound then, and the demon’s heart froze for a moment. Was it too much? Ah, no: Aziraphale’s face said the noise was not one of fright or scandal, merely surprise, and he neither scolded Crowley nor retrieved his hand. Thank goodness.

Bright blue-grey eyes watched Crowley for a long moment, rolling several thoughts around inside his big blond head, before one of them settled to the forefront: "It was very nice, that evening." How they'd come together, all wine-sour and hot, with damp hands and sweaty clothes (too many for such a warm evening and yet not enough that they’d felt confident removing any), and how Aziraphale had been leaning on that sleepy-foggy cusp, nearly fully in his cups but still holding onto an edge of control - it had all been very tender and ardent. 

The serpent smiled fondly. "Yes. Yes, it was. I remember that much. I remember... that we both had wine breath, and that your clothes smelled like cedar and roses. And that my hair was a complete wreck after, because your hands were always in it.”

"Your hair was already a mess," Aziraphale quipped. "And I still think it's lovely. I'm almost sad you didn't come home with me." He turned his hand against Crowley's and nudged the curled side of his finger under the demon's jaw. "It was lonely after you left." _He_ was lonely. He'd been lonely then, and since then, for a very long time. Being on Earth, being exposed to ideas and questions and mortal pleasures, had made him... different. And an angel who was different was an angel who was very much _alone_.

"I would've," the Fallen replied, smiling in his crooked and soft way. "If you'd asked me. I get lonely without you, too." It was why he was constantly seeking the angel out, whether they needed to contact each other or not. It was how he got roped into this asinine mission in the first place.

In the background, he could hear that the steady stream of the rain had slowed to a mere trickle; the storm was passing by. He felt his stomach clench, just a little. "The rain's nearly stopped. We have to leave in a few minutes and keep going, angel," he whispered, conflicted, bringing that soft hand to his face and nuzzling it. His skin was hot. "I wish there was more time. I wanted to feel your hands in my hair again. I wanted... more."

Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment, a heartbeat, two, three. _Breathe. Focus. Alright._ "We'll have time, soon. I promise, I swear I'll make time." His face twisted regretfully, and he took his hand back. "It won't be long at all, you'll see. " He turned to look up at the cave entrance, and as he did so, the droplets of rainwater still falling from the sodden soil began to glow and glitter in a thin ray of golden sunlight. The storm had passed.  


Crowley saw the angel pause, felt the temperature rise around them, and then both of their bodies seemed to sigh as one in resignation. The sun was shining again, and their time was up. It was just as well; he'd had to fight the urge to put Aziraphale's hand on the scruff of his neck and let whatever happened next run its course.

The angel stood, gathered his bag, and exhaled again, doing a little shifting dance of self-resolution as his wings dissolved back into the ether. Standing at the edge of the pool of light spilling down from above, he stopped for one last confession. "Before we go, I just want to say: I hate Gabriel's wigs. He's been wearing these _ridiculous_ powdery things covered in bows and pearls and other nonsense, and he keeps saying it's going to 'catch on like fire', whatever that means - but they're _awful._ ” Aziraphale grinned. “He looks like a cake."

Crowley had been intending to make a proper, sober exit to the scene. However, the angel's words caught him off-guard and the resulting mental image of the Archangel Gabriel parading around in a powder-white wig made Crowley wheeze so hard that he had to bend over. "Oh nooo, no no, that's _dreadful!_ He'd look like a sheep on its hind legs! Ahaha!" He assumed a stuffy, theatrical stance and strutted back over to his gear. "Oh look at me, look at me, I'm Gabriel. I'm _so_ much better than you _peasants._ "

Covering his mouth with a hand, Aziraphale giggled, then coughed and collected his walking stick. "Now now, don't set me off. We do need to get a move on." There was a wistfulness to his tone; he would have liked to explore that line of conversation as well, but he supposed they'd have the chance eventually. One day. He knew the world was building up to something dramatic, and their dance could finally end. Maybe, maybe he could allow himself hope. His coat and waistcoat were still damp, and he supposed he could collect them later. Ready, he approached the cave entrance and tested the surety of his footing on the slippery stones. With the aid of a sturdy root and his stick, he climbed up to the surface.  
  


Still cackling softly, the demon pulled his boots back on and checked on the sizable scrape on his left arm. Still not closed up all the way. Hrm. He’d have to miracle that away as soon as his powers were restored- an infection could happen easily in this moist environment. Making sure his belongings were properly gathered (along with the remaining liana pieces), he slung his pack over his shoulders and prepared to climb out. Aziraphale was already on his way up, but Crowley certainly didn’t mind waiting his turn. _Nice view from down here,_ he thought with a little grin. Testing the liana vine and bracing his feet on the makeshift steps, he quickly hauled himself up and out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Crowley does not understand potatoes and that is valid.


	3. Slender Fungus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Further down the creepy creepy rabbit hole... Oh, er, that's not a rabbit!
> 
> Crowley and Aziraphale have found their lost missionary (and probably wish they hadn’t).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Hold onto your butts, it's about to get weird. CHECK THE TAGS.)
> 
> Updates on Sundays!

Standing in a sunlit clearing that glittered wet and vibrant, Crowley squinted briefly at the foliage. “Okay,” he said, trying to collect himself. “We were going… north, yes?” One hand gesture loosely in the direction. 

"I'm not sure which way is which, anymore." Aziraphale shielded his eyes from the sun, confused. Nothing looked familiar; he couldn't even spot the tree he'd pulled the vines from... perhaps it was just the sunshine in his eyes. "But that looks like the only clear passage we've got. And I'm sure it's not the way we came." The sun was too high to give a reliable direction, and even though he did have a compass somewhere, given the circumstances, it hardly mattered.

Crowley tried to get his bearings as well, to find something he recognized, but he, too, was sure the clearing was now entirely different... or maybe it was exactly the same and he'd just been too distracted by the storm to pay attention? There was a pathway to their left, as Aziraphale pointed out. "Well," he sighed. "Nothing for it. Might as well go that way. Oh--are you hungry, angel? I found some fruits a few days ago, if you want them."

With anyone else, Aziraphale might worry about 'some fruits', considering their likelihood to be toxic - not that poisonous berries would kill him, but removing toxins from his poor human body was never fun. Crowley, however, seemed to know inherently which ones could be eaten. To his credit, he had tasted one before gathering more, as he'd never offer his companion anything dangerous. He opened a side pocket and pulled out a greenish-yellow fruit that fit cozily in his palm.  
  
The angel made a delighted sound. "Of course, that would be wonderful!"

"You eat it like an apple," Crowley informed his friend, handing it over. "It does have seeds and they don't taste that great, but the fleshy part is sweet."

"Thank- er, I appreciate this." Glancing upward, unsure, Aziraphale stepped closer and accepted the fruit. He was immediately struck by the smell of it - rich and sweet, slightly resiny, notes of strawberry, banana, and pine. Neither of them had encountered guavas before, but there was no question in the angel’s mind that they were edible. "Oh." He had to stop walking for a moment, "Oh, that's delectable." Biting into the fruit, teeth sinking easily into its creamy center - not what he was expecting, texture-wise, but still a delight. He only fell a few steps behind before hurrying ahead again. "My word, this is _delicious_ ."   
  
"I thought you'd like it. I have a few more, if you want them." A warm little glow of delight spread in his chest whenever he did something that made Aziraphale happy. Bless it all, he was so cute when he ate something delicious, and Crowley really wanted to comment on that. Alas, they were no longer Alone. 

Distracted, they scarcely noticed how thick the forest was becoming until after the guava was gone. And then... oh, goodness. It was like they were walking through a tunnel. Crowley looked up, seeing how completely the sun had been blotted out. A knot of anxious discomfort formed in his stomach. "...angel, when did it get this dark? We've only been walking for a few minutes and it looks like nighttime already."

"Just the canopy, I'm sure..." Aziraphale sounded entirely _not_ sure, frowning at the faint specks of light peeking through the leaves. He'd been all over the world, and he’d never seen trees growing so closely together before. Usually, there would be a seam of sun between each one as they enforced their borders, even in the deepest forests, but here... it was so dark. Turning around, he found it was equally thick in the opposite direction, with no hint of the daylight they'd come in from, just an endless corridor of unbroken, shadowy green. "Er." The angel felt in his pockets, looking for that compass. "I'm sure..." Drawing it out and squinting at it in the dark. North and slightly East. But really, what did that tell him? Not nearly as much as he'd hoped. Turning again toward the North, he could see a faint glow that looked to be not terribly far ahead. "I’m sure we'll come out of it soon."

Crowley glanced down at the compass as well. They were still going in the same general direction as they'd been before, but the air felt much closer here, claustrophobic, more like they were still underground rather than in a forest. He could also see the light ahead - sunlight? "I have a bad feeling," he muttered, but they pressed on. Their wayward missionary was (probably) still out there, and they had to find him.

Doing his best to walk abreast of the longer-legged demon, clutching the compass in both hands, Aziraphale struggled to avoid tripping in the dim light. He did not see all that well in the dark, but it did make the growing glow up ahead stand out to his vision. And then he noticed something odd, peeking up out of the leaf litter: bioluminescent roots. They were fine and threadlike at first, thickening as they progressed. Their yellow-green hue was not unlike that of daylight through leaves, and Aziraphale realized he had been fooled: there was no sunlight awaiting them. He turned to see his companion gaping at the sight, tracing paths of light up the trunks of the trees surrounding them.   
  
Aziraphale reached over and tugged at Crowley's sleeve. "Dear? Do... you know of any plants that glow?"

The discomfort in Crowley’s stomach was growing quickly. _It’s less like an underground tunnel here, more like a-_ "Eh? Ah... no, can't say I do. Far as I know, no plants glow." Which was strange, because the roots he could see were doing exactly that. He paused and knelt down, looking closely but not touching. "I mean, I suppose unusual glowing plants could evolve in a deep, dark jungle and we just didn't know it, buuut..." He stood up. "Neh. Isn't natural. Doesn't feel right." _-like a monster’s maw._

"It certainly doesn't. Oh my..." Aziraphale's mouth was slightly agape, his eyes wide. He could see past the end of the tunnel now. Ahead, the roots grew thicker, brighter, arching up out of the soil, and increasing in size until they were large enough that they would require climbing over - yet none of them impeded the trail they walked. There was a brightness, the appearance of a fairly large space just ahead, all lit up with the same eerie light. And something else: a figure standing there, in the middle of this strange courtyard, too far yet to clearly make out.

_Bad feeling. Bad feeling. Bad._ Crowley found himself reaching for the machete that hung from the side of his pack and holding it loosely at his side. He might as well be carrying a butter knife, for all the good it might do, but it was better than nothing. It felt like they were being herded along a path made for them to travel. "Angel," Crowley finally said, agitated, seeing that lone figure ahead. "We should go back."

"Yes..." Aziraphale made a little u-turn. "Crowley? I don't think there is a 'back'."

"What?" He turned abruptly, seeing nothing behind them but a densely tangled weave of luminous roots. "Ohh..." Realization dawned as he turned and looked back at the figure, as it waited in the clearing. "... fffuck."

Aziraphale frowned lightly at the coarse language, and then shook his head. "Well, maybe it'll be reasonable, we should probably try to talk to it." He snapped, and a small sphere of light appeared in his hand. "Ah, excellent." Heartened by that, he approached the clearing ahead, the little ball of light seemingly making the roots darken and dull where its celestial glow touched them. Crowley was far less hopeful, but knew that other options (like high-tailing it out of there) were gone now. He followed after Aziraphale, who was striding forward at a healthy clip, and wondered grumpily why a simple search-and-rescue mission had to get so bloody complicated.  
  
Before them, the stone archway rose up and became more defined in its detail, and Crowley paused before passing under it for a closer look. More stones were on the ground, he noticed, forming a ring, each one carved and painted with figures and symbols he didn’t recognize.

The angel passed through the archway, where there were also a pair of carved and painted stones. He had just enough time to notice the similar stones all the way around, delineating the space, and then his little light went out. "...Shite!"

Crowley froze mid-step as the dark closed in. "Angel," he warned. "Uh, let's come out of there, yes?"

Backpedaling quickly, Aziraphale joined his companion on the other side of the arch and blinked owlishly through it, for there were two very interesting things beyond the standing stones. 

The first was that the glowing white roots had finally reached their source: a massive fungal growth resembling certain species of stinkhorn, a pale lattice encasing a shiny, black, teardrop-shaped bulb. The inflorescence stood at least fifteen feet high, and only slightly less wide at its thickest point.  
  
Crowley was troubled by that peculiar fungal growth, but didn't remark on it because the second interesting thing caught his attention: the human figure standing directly in front of the immense mushroom. At closer range, the clothing and features became clear, and upsettingly familiar.  
The person (if it _was_ a person) standing in the stone circle was the church-human they'd been seeking. 

  
"....Edmund? Is that you?" The demon didn't feel relief just yet, because nothing about this was _right_. Nothing about the church-human put him at ease. "We've been looking for you all day. What...What happened?"

The preacher didn't look afraid, or even surprised, to see them; he simply gazed at the pair with a placid smile, hands clasped at his front. Without a word, he silently raised an arm and beckoned.

"Oh, that is not alright at all," Aziraphale said shakily. "I feel a very, _very_ bad energy coming from him." Bad enough to frighten the angel, enough to make him pale and shiver. He stepped closer to his companion and felt anxiously for his hand, unwilling to take his eyes off of the preacher. Crowley, who had seen that unnatural motion, the lack of human response, and felt a chill creep up his spine, reflexively grasped the angel's seeking fingers in his.  
  
"Very bad," Crowley echoed softly, swallowing. This... was not Edmund. "N-No thanks, friend," he said more loudly to Not-Edmund. "We're, uh, we're gonna stay right here."

The human that was Not-Edmund waved and beckoned again, more emphatically, and then repeated the gesture a few more times, before abruptly dropping his arm. For several seconds, the man just stood there, staring at them, as if considering his next move. Then, the preacher’s body simply lost its rigor: his head lolled to his chest, and his entire body slowly slumped forward, tearing away from the mycelium adhering the human’s body to that of the fungus. The thready, white hyphae had already eaten away much of Edmund's clothing and skin and burrowed itself into the body, which was now (in the absence of whatever it was that had been animating it) very, very obviously dead.

Aziraphale dropped his walking stick and clapped his hand over his mouth, making a squeaky, breathy sound. Beside him, the demon recoiled with a repulsed "Eeewwwwuh." The face that accompanied that sound was twisted with disgust and growing terror. Okay, so Not-Edmund was also Not-Alive. It was a meat puppet being moved around by... whatever this sentient mushroom was.

Turning to clutch at the taller being by his side, Aziraphale was very close to abject panic. _No no no, whatever this is, it can't hurt us, it can't get at us, as long as we stay out here, it can't! It can't!_   
  
"Crowley. We need to go,” he rasped, “We need to get through that wall, Crowley. Now."

"Yes, yes we do." The demon turned away from the arch and retreated to the barrier of interwoven roots, pulling Aziraphale along behind him. There, he brandished his machete and started hacking at a weaker-looking spot towards the side; thankfully, the tangle gave way to his sharp blade easily enough. "Angel," he said briskly, pushing several cut ends into Aziraphale's hands. "Pull these away."

As they worked together to create a gap in the mycelial barrier, they noticed an odd sound, increasing in volume all around them. A resonant grinding was winding through the earth, like a vast bell had been struck and slowed, until the ground trembled beneath them so fiercely that Crowley nearly lost a finger to his own machete.  
  
Daylight broke through the wall where Crowley had been cutting away at it. A fraction of a second after that, there was a loud, wet _crack!_ from behind them, followed by a liquid pattering. The ongoing grinding sound abruptly rose in pitch, sharpening and becoming a voice, if only by virtue of forming words. "Are you going to leave us already?" it said, the words rattling like caiman teeth in a soothsayer’s palm.

Aziraphale lost his grip on the vegetation and whipped his head around. "I-"

"What the-" Crowley faltered, speechless. Oh, someone, that sound, that _voice!_ The earth was opening up and the pure essence of something foul was pouring its voice on them like venomous ooze. His heart jumped into his throat, and he hissed softly in fear. 

Before them, the vast, fruit-like body of the fungus was peeling open, the blackness inside dripping out and soaking the ground around it. As the sections of the lattice opened, a larger figure, as ink-like as the dark ichor it had been birthed from, stood and stretched out a pair of spindly limbs. Stretching wide, nearly reaching the edges of the clearing, they were like the wings of bats - albeit lacking membranes, only the long, thin finger-bones. "You've come all this way. Did you not come to talk to us? They all come to talk to us."  
  


Leaning toward his companion, Aziraphale asked in a whisper, "Is that a demon?"

"Not one of ours," Crowley whispered back. "Trust me, if that thing was in our ranks, we would know."

There was little they could do but watch this very large and ominous creature birth itself into the world, grotesque and covered in black slime and... were those wings? Oh. Suddenly the depictions of tribal bats Crowley had absently noticed on that stone archway made a lot more sense. Whatever it was, it didn't look like it was done being born, so the demon resumed cutting away at the fungal wall hemming them in.

Aziraphale squeaked and stammered at the monstrosity, "I'm terribly sorry that we bothered you, we'll just be on our-” That bell-like grinding had resumed, swelling up through the ground and cutting the angel off. “Oh my!"  
  
Baleful red eyes opened as the tarry coating slid away from the horrifying being's skeletal face. Its flesh weaving itself from the same black fluid and melding to those ink-dark bones. Outstretched, the membranes of its wings were lacing themselves together thread by thread, as if thousands of spiders were weaving them out of dark silk.   
  
As its body filled out, the creature’s outline and appearance became more clearly that of a giant, humanoid bat. It pulled a large clawed foot out of the ooze and stepped up onto the curled edge of the stinkhorn’s lattice. "Futile, cutting, cutting. It hurts, you hurt us! How cruel. You wake us, you threaten us, you send _them_ -" It gestured at the dead preacher. "-with the word of one not welcome here, and you won't even talk to us? I will show you how friendly we are."

_Them_? Crowley blinked at that, and turned in time to see the giant beast flick its bony fingers at Edmund's corpse, making it twitch and begin to reanimate. 

  
Beside him, Aziraphale stood trembling in silence, unable to speak, for he could see motion below the creature’s feet. Where the stinkhorn’s ichor had soaked in, the blackened soil was now undulating and writhing, as if being churned up by something alive.  
  


The demon stuttered, pulling at Aziraphale’s arm. He began to protest, "No, no, we didn't send anyone. Those poor bastards ran off on their own with big ideas, and-"  
  
And this, Crowley realized, was what had happened to them. The English missionaries that had gone missing were dead. All of them. And this he and his angel were about to be discorporated in a most unpleasant manner if they didn't hurry up. "Oh, shit."  
  
The wet soil tore open as sticky, dripping shapes clawed and pulled themselves from the earth. Bodies made of mud and bones and worms rising up from the desecrated ground, the sight sickening, hair-raising. The things coming out of the ground weren't neat humanoid forms like the angels or even the bat-like being facing them. These were little more than rough globs of tainted grave-soil; amorphous, articulated masses, their components shifted around and reconfigured until they could stand and walk. Scattered among the loosely-assembled skeletons and debris were confirmations of Crowley’s assumption: Rotted fragments of fabric and leather wrapped around bones and mud, still identifiable as European garments. A gold crucifix on its chain, tangled about a string of cervical vertebrae. A moldering dagger hilt slung around an empty pelvis. The square outline of a book (a Bible?) jutting from the hollow of a rib cage.  
  
A job well done, then. They had certainly found what they were looking for.  
  


Crowley felt himself break into gooseflesh and cold sweats, the white-knuckled fingers of the angel tightening further on his shirt-sleeve.   
  


“Hold on, angel,” he hissed to his companion, and then attempted to take them out of there with a great summoning of infernal power. There was a _shudder_ of the air about them, but they stayed firmly put.  
  
Well, _shit._   
  
“Crowley?” Aziraphale blinked. “What did you-”  
  
That chewed-bone voice interrupted again, slowly becoming richer in timbre as the bat-creature’s throat cleared of ichor and knit itself back into flesh. "No, no, no going yet. You need to meet my friends,” it said in a mockingly sweet tone, gesturing to the dirt-forms that were still pulling themselves together out of the ground. “Say hello, these are my friends. Soon we will have even more friends."

In that moment, both angel and demon were convinced that discorporation was a best-case scenario, should the monster in the circle claim them. This was a being, they were certain, that could do far, far worse things than destroy them.  
  
And the opening Crowley had been carving still wasn’t big enough, not if they couldn’t miracle themselves out of there. He was sure he’d managed to make a larger hole than _that_ ! Had it been mending itself when he wasn’t looking?  
  


"Shit, shit, shit- Aziraphale, your miracles still work, right? Blow them away or something, I need more time!"

Aziraphale held his hands up, exhaling in relief as he felt himself successfully draw from his own supply of celestial power. He focused, using his will to create a wall of holy fire in the archway while Crowley kept working on their escape. He had to concentrate to maintain the barrier, but he could hold. He just hoped these things were actually susceptible to fire - it would be hard to burn wet soil. 

Ugh, the stink was getting worse. Crowley watched the abominable shapes squirming around in the dirt as they attempted to stand and move, nauseated by the thought of being touched by them. At the very least, the nearest ones shuffling around didn’t get too close to Aziraphale’s cleansing flames.  
  
Within the circle, the bat-creature was chuckling, watching the pair struggle to hold back its ‘friends’. The angel and demon did not think to wonder why they could still use these powers, why they had not also been quelled as easily as their ability to teleport.  
  
_Hurry, hurry._ Crowley had time to act now; Aziraphale had given him time, but so little. _Hurry!_ Summoning a small orb of hellfire into his free hand, he slammed his fiery palm into the remaining roots - it hurt, but it went through the fungus like a razor through a sheet and the hole quickly became large enough to fit them both. He could see the other side. "Angel! Let's go!" he called, flapping his hand sharply to cancel the miracle. The first few earthen ghouls were testing the wall of holy fire. "You first. Go, go, go."

Turning, Aziraphale had to release the fire barrier to run, and as he did so, a bony, filthy arm lurched through the archway, right through the dissipating flames, and latched onto the angel's arm, yanking him back with supernatural strength. As he was pulled in, another skeletal hand clutched at him, another, dozens, dragging him back. He barely had time to yelp, to scream, before the archway between sealed itself over. The roots dulled as they settled into place - no longer soft and glowing, but dark grey, still, and very hard.

And now, Crowley was alone.


	4. In Every Dream Home A Heartache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though our angel and demon retreat to a familiar place, it may take more than a miracle to escape Hell.
> 
> NEW! Illustration of Aziraphale's spooky trek Down Below, drawn by Gearsmoke: https://twitter.com/Penemues_Quill/status/1263524383861153792

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates on Sundays!
> 
> Special thanks to our beta-reader, joy_shines!

It all happened in space of a blink, a word, a gasp. The hole was there, the path to freedom wide open, but Crowley had forgotten it in an instant. He'd lashed his arm out, quick as a striking snake, and just missed the angel's hand before the horde of nightmares swarmed over him and vanished behind the stones.  
  
"Angel...?" he croaked, disbelieving, in shock. Gone. They were gone, and they'd taken his friend, and now he was alone. He got up, machete in hand, and ran to the sealed-off gateway. "Angel? Angel!"  
  
Crowley tested the roots, pushing, pulling, stabbing at them, but only making the slightest dent. _No, no, no._ He summoned hellfire into both palms, big orbs this time, and pressed them against the roots until his own palms grew raw, the skin charred; to his dismay, the roots blackened and smoked, but did not crumble. 

"Aziraphale!” No response. He swore loudly, waving the fire away and vainly beating on the gate with his fists. “ _Aziraphale_!” 

  
He hollered until his voice was hoarse, clinging to the barrier with aching hands. This was futile. He had to be smarter than this. Turning around, he pressed his back to the root wall, trying to slow his breath, trying to concentrate and think of next steps. Thus, Crowley was unprepared when the creature spoke again, and he flinched at the gravelly, cracking voice that seemed to come from all around him.

  
"You want to go so badly?" It laughed. "Fine, then! Yes, fine. You may go. Go, take your _pobre angelito_ , and remember: you can always come back when you are ready to talk." An impossibly cold wind blew through the archway as the barrier parted, and Aziraphale was thrown roughly through the gap.  
  
The angel fell into Crowley, ragdoll-limp and heavy, and they both crashed to the ground. The demon fought to sit up, just in time to see the brambles and roots knit back together. As they did so, the thick, tough tendrils pulled the carved rocks from the ground and incorporated them into a solid wall, leaving no sign that there had ever been an archway there.

"Hey. _Hey!_ " the demon roared at the sealed entrance. "What the Heaven did you do to him, you-" A string of profanity followed as he clung to that body in his arms.

There was only the faintest of hollow laughter in response, and then nothing. The web of roots behind them, like the gateway and everything else, had vanished into thin air. Whatever it was, whatever it had done, it was clearly finished with them.   
  
Turning his attention back to his companion, Crowley trembled in fear of the worst. Aziraphale looked unharmed, but he was filthy, his clothes soiled and ripped, and he was not moving. Anxiously, he patted a bloodless cheek. "Aziraphale? Angel? Hey, are you..." He was clearly not okay. "...alive? Oh, angel, please don't be dead." 

  
Concentrating, Crowley could just barely sense Aziraphale. The angel was chilled and pale, yes, but he was _there_ \- the aura of life still clung to him fiercely. This was a strong, stubborn creature, and although he remained unconscious, he regained his colour and inhaled raggedly after only a couple of minutes. The demon, in turn, heaved his own sigh of relief.

As soon as Aziraphale was stable, Crowley tried once again to miracle them both out of that area as quickly as possible. This time, he successfully transported them both back to the campsite where this whole ordeal had started and tucked his companion into one of the tents, covering him in blankets and putting a folded shirt beneath his head. While Aziraphale slept, he dealt with his hellfire-burned hands as well as he was able, wrapping them with torn strips of fabric and a balm from one of the abandoned bags.  
  
Aziraphale awoke not long afterwards, eyes flying open and sitting up with a jolt. "Crowley!"  
  
Crowley, who had been pacing outside the tent, was immediately there when he heard his name, kneeling in the tent entrance. 

"Oh, thank goodness. Here, drink."

He gently pressed a clay cup of water into the angel’s shaking hands.  
  
"Where- wh- ah..." The celestial was clearly out of sorts. "O-oh. Yes." He accepted the water and drank deeply, the rasp of his voice smoothing. "Am I back? There were so many." He glanced around uncertainly, holding the little clay cup as if it were eggshell. "Thousands... all the way down."

The demon frowned. "Down? Down where? Where did you go?" Crowley was glad Aziraphale was awake, but now he had questions.

Still shivering, not yet aware of what was done to him, Aziraphale could only mutter, "Down... just down. All the way down." Not Hell, he would have been able to say if it were Hell.

Crowley slid a blanket over the angel's shoulders. The sun had set by now, the only light coming from the fire that he'd built while waiting, but that had nothing to do with the chill that went down his spine. Down, the angel said. Down past Hell. Down into another hell? 

"You stayed?" Aziraphale looked up at the demon then, wide-eyed, his face smeared with soil, the corners of his mouth cracked and dry. "You waited."

"Of course I stayed, angel. I couldn't just leave you like this.”

"You couldn’t…?” Crowley wouldn't have waited all that time, would he? “But it was- " How much time _had_ passed? Aziraphale couldn't tell; it might have been centuries, years, or merely months. But he looked at his hands, at the dirt ground into the lines of his palms, and he knew it had been many, many days. "How... How long was I gone?"

"Longer than I'd have liked, but... only a few minutes, really.” Long enough for Crowley to rage and bang on the door like a loony, and also burn his hands. It had felt like longer, but in reality the time gap had been no more than five minutes.

The angel looked perturbed. “No, that- that can’t be right. It was… what’s this?” He noticed a pang of discomfort from his forearm and tugged up his ratty, filthy sleeve to find a small, M-shaped symbol on his inner wrist. It felt fresh and sore, like a bruise stamped into his skin. He didn't have that before, nor did he notice it in the dark place. 

Crowley peered at it as well, frowning. “What’s that? Didn’t think you had any tattoos.” 

“I don’t. Or… I didn’t.” Aziraphale put his hand over the mark and attempted to heal it, then looked at Crowley in dismay. "It won't go away." He still sounded rather distant and muddled, as if he wasn't wholly there.

It hurt and troubled Crowley deeply to see his normally vivacious companion looking so fragile. What in the world had happened to him? What was that symbol, and what did it mean?

"Crowley,” the angel continued anxiously. “I want to go home. Is my villa in Cordoba still there?"

"That charming little place with all the ivy? Yeah, it's still there." Best to ponder his many questions later. For the moment, his angel was in desperate need of care, and the first order of business was getting them both out from this rotten jungle. He patted Aziraphale’s hand soothingly. “Not to worry. We can go back to Puerto Cortés and get on the first ship headed for Europe.”

“No.” Those familiar blue eyes were wide and haunted, hands grasping at his shirt sleeve. “No, no, that will take weeks, months. I want to go home _now_. I can’t spend another night here, Crowley, I just can’t. Please.”

It was impossible for the demon to refuse such a desperate plea, but the request Aziraphale was making was no small matter. Popping from place to place within the same general area was one thing; popping across an entire ocean was quite another. It took an enormous amount of power, and it would undoubtedly be noticed by their respective bosses. But given the situation… surely it would be allowed, just this once?  
  
“All right, angel,” he finally agreed. “But I’ll need some help. It’s a long trip.”

Aziraphale nodded, and they joined hands. In his mind’s eyes, Crowley pictured the villa.

With a snap that drew on all of the demon’s power (and a good portion of angel’s), they vanished from the jungle and were transported directly to La Casa Del Angelo. Crowley wobbled a bit, exhausted, but managed to keep his feet and escort his companion inside before anyone nearby noticed their very sudden appearance. Frankly, he wasn’t entirely sure how they’d made it, given Aziraphale’s weakened state. (The angel, for his part, had no such concerns and was very glad to be back, allowing himself to be led into the familiar abode.)  
  
"Thank you, dear. I know that was taxing for you.” A quick glance around assured Aziraphale that everything was just as he’d left it. “I’d only paid up for a year, after all, so I really couldn’t blame the landlord if he’d found another tenant by now. But you took care of it for me, didn’t you? You've been so good, dear boy. Always so good." These words flowed easily, as if he'd forgotten where he was, that he could be watched. It was less of a risk in his carefully-warded apartment, but it was still more of one than he’d usually take. Seemingly starting to get his bearings again, he headed toward the kitchen to start a fire and put on some tea. "Please stay a while? I've been alone for so long, and... well. So have you, I expect."

"Yeah, I'll stay. Long as you like." The Spanish villa was one of Crowley’s favorite options out of Aziraphale's string of rental homes. Situated in a square of similar townhouses surrounding a treed courtyard, the flat was quaint, cozy and comforting, and the neighbors minded their own business - so naturally Crowley was glad to accept the invitation. (Though the compliments made him feel a little uneasy, and he still wasn't sure what his friend was talking about, as far as being alone and how long it had been.) "Angel," he said after a moment, taking a seat at the kitchen table. "Can you, er… Can you remember anything? From down there?"

“Oh, yes. Almost everything.” Aziraphale’s hands shook just a little as he poured water into his little Yixing teapot, unwrapped a bar of compressed tea from its parchment (the real stuff, from China), and crumbled small pieces into the pot. "Not every day, maybe, but I remember very well."

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Rather abruptly, Aziraphale felt a wave of fatigue hit him, nearly buckling his knees, and he put the kettle down with a clatter and leaned on the counter. Crowley flinched, making moves to rise.

“Angel? You all right?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Let me just- ah… just give me a moment, dear.” 

“Of course.” The reaction almost made the demon regret asking, but this wasn't something they could just ignore. Something was wrong, and answers were needed.  
  
Taking a steadying breath, the angel ran his hand through his hair and blinked in surprise when soil and little twigs fell from the grown-out locks, which now fell around his shoulders. Shaking his head, he carefully poured two cups of tea and added a lump of sugar to each one, then carried them over to the table. Crowley nodded his thanks.

Aziraphale sat and picked up his own cup, inhaling the steam appreciatively. He nearly drank, then paused, cleared his throat, and made a small, hesitant gesture. When the tea immediately cooled to drinking temperature, he sighed softly in relief and then sipped it eagerly. Good Lord, he was so parched.

Out of courtesy, the demon took a sip of his own tea, but he barely tasted it. Crowley was doing what did what he did best: watching and waiting. Aziraphale looked so wretchedly tired that he nearly suggested that they wait to have this discussion until after a bath and some rest had been had, but no - it was best to discuss this while it was still fresh in the mind.

After quietly drinking his tea for several minutes, the angel began to speak. "At first I thought I was in Cumbria.” He exhaled, fidgeting with his cup. “It was dark and wet and cold - like the swamps in the Northern lowlands, but so, _so_ dark, Crowley. An entire forest of still water, dead trees, and the sounds of unseen things moving around in the night. There was a road nearby when I awoke, so I just started walking. The moon - I think it was a moon - it gave off enough light to see the road, at least, and I marked the days by its passing until I lost track." Aziraphale took another drink, letting the tea moisten his tongue before swallowing it. "There were human souls there, too. Thousands of them, wandering in the forest. They wanted me to stop walking, just to go to sleep and join them. I kept going, believe me, but the swamp wouldn't end and the sun wouldn't come.” After looking into his cup for a while, watching the crushed leaves unfurl at the bottom, the angel added, “There were moments when I wanted to lay down in the moss and let them have me."

Crowley's initial guess that Down There was another type of hell hadn't been too far off the mark, and he'd never been so unhappy to be right. It didn't sound like much, yet it sounded like every awful thing at once. He imagined the darkness and cold, walking on and on through frigid sludge with inhuman voices whispering from every direction, and none of it ever stopped. The notion that a place (and a monster) that could so easily swallow up a celestial being even existed wasn’t something Crowley wished to dwell on. He had a few dozen things he wanted to say, but he decided to be quiet for now and just nodded.

After looking to his companion and being prompted to continue, Aziraphale went on in a wavering tone. "It was terrifying, to be perfectly honest. I had no power, no direction, and I was alone. Oh, there were voices - souls calling to me, creatures stalking me in the dark - but I was alone. All I wanted was to see you again, Crowley. I've missed you." In any other place, in any other situation, the amount of time he'd spent in that soggy hellscape would have been trivial, hardly worth noting. But a place like that, the uniformity and constant fear, had unraveled each day into an eternity.

“I missed you, too.” It wasn’t completely accurate, given that the angel had only been briefly gone from his perspective, but Crowley knew that kind words were needed more than accuracy right then. He edged his hand closer, the pinky finger brushing his companion’s knuckles. "And I'm glad you're back. You're really something, you know that? Dealing with that nightmarish place for however long and not giving into it."

The angel smiled slightly and opened his mouth to speak, but paused and frowned when he felt the unfamiliar texture of the bandages, having finally come to his senses enough to notice such things. "What happened to your hands?"

"Er." Crowley averted his eyes and felt a little heat crawl up his neck, tapping his nails once on the table. “Just some burns. Didn’t have a chance to fix ‘em yet.”

"Oh, dear. Here, let me."

“No, really, it’s fine,” the demon stammered. “You need to rest and take care of yourself first.” 

“Please, Crowley. Let me do this for you.” Those blue eyes were wide and pleading. After feeling helpless for so long, he needed to reestablish his grip on his celestial power and reassure himself that he really had it back.  
  
_Fuck._ The serpent flushed and made a grumbling noise, but he allowed Aziraphale to handle his wrists. Under the wrapping, the palms were no longer raw, but the skin was mottled and blackened. Aziraphale made a small, sympathetic sound and then focused, passing waves of healing over the burned flesh, and Crowley sighed in relief as the pain faded.  
  
“What on _earth_ did you do to put your hands in that state?”

“Funny story, that." Crowley cleared his throat. “After you were taken, I might’ve done something very stupid and tried to burn through the gate with Hellfire. I..." A lump formed unexpectedly in his throat, and he bowed his head slightly. "I'm so sorry, angel. I tried to grab you, and then I tried to follow you, but the gate was sealed shut. Not even Hellfire made a dent."

Aziraphale's brows furrowed in concentration. "The gate,” he murmured. "The... graves." Memory rose from within him like ghouls from ichorous soil, and he repeated the words that emerged: "Four and then four more, and you shall remember Camazotz."

Well, that wasn’t ominous at all. Crowley made a puzzled face. "Camawhat? Zotz? What's a Camazotz?" Was it a name? A place?

“I believe it's the being that took me. He... rules that world, or that's what he told me before I woke up in the swamp." The angel finished his tea and summoned another cupful from the pot. 

So the bat-shaped monster who could command earthen ghouls and kidnap angels, and also apparently ruled over some kind of underground hellscape, was called Camazotz. "Four and then four more," Crowley repeated, thinking. "Four what? Was that all he said?"

After a pause, a slow tipping of cup to mouth, Aziraphale said, "It's what I remember." He put the tea down and let his head droop forward, spiral curls bouncing around his face. "I think I was in that dreadful place for four years.” He shivered. “I don't want to go back there. I _cannot_." When the angel caught Crowley's eyes, he looked as if all certainty about the world had been torn out of him.

Four years - his angel had been slogging around in that ghastly place for _four years_ in the span of time it normally took Crowley to fall asleep. "You won't go back," he stated, pushing himself to be as reassuring as possible and putting his hand over the other's. "You won't. You're here now, and you're safe." The thumb moved slowly, stroking. "Say... why don't we run you a bath and get you cleaned up? You'll feel more like yourself."

Aziraphale nodded, as he simply didn't have it in him to refuse or to worry about repercussions. He could feel the wards around his apartment, was assured by their strength, and while not proof against intrusion, they certainly made his home more private than anywhere else he knew of. Except, perhaps one place.  
  
"Thank you, dear. That would be wonderful." Hot bath. Good lord, Aziraphale couldn't imagine how he must smell. He'd gotten so used to being filthy, to the stench of rot and mold and permeating damp.  
  


Crowley patted the angel's hand. "Wait here, and enjoy your tea. I'll call you up when it's ready." He hurried into the large bathroom, a vintage mahogany and copper tub waiting there, and with a snap of his fingers it was filled with hot, steaming water from the cistern below the plaza. As an afterthought, he tossed a few cedar-scented bath salts in. Towels were placed nearby, as well as a mat for the angel to step on and a bar of soap and a washing cloth. He could bring out a nightshirt for the angel to change into once he was in the bath. "Angel," he called. "Ready when you are." No rush - the water would stay hot, because he expected it.

“Yes, coming.” When Aziraphale stood again, his legs shook. He was so tired; he couldn't remember not being tired. Down there, moving had become a fact more than a choice. 

When the angel crossed the small flat to enter the bathing room, he leant for a moment against the doorframe. "Crowley... this is-" Wonderful? Too much? He made a choked little noise, overwhelmed. Everything was clean, warm, and dry, candles lighting the room with a calming golden glow, and he felt like he could break. He waved a hand slightly when the demon looked concerned. "I'm alright, my dear. Just, it's... it's divine." Pushing away from the wall, he pulled at his torn, dirty shirt, meaning to remove it, but the linen of it was so worn and rotten that it fell off in pieces.

Crowley was appalled; he’d never seen clothing in such a state, especially not on his sharp-dressed angel. "Ah..." He saw the cloth falling away and, out of respect for the angel's privacy, focused his gaze on a small crack in the floor. "Do you, uh, need any help, or should I..." He nodded towards the door.

"If it's not an imposition, I'd... like you to stay." The angel was afraid to be alone, especially in such a vulnerable state. 

"I'll stay, then." 

Smiling gratefully, Aziraphale moved so that he was behind Crowley, and the rest of his tattered rags fell away with a small exertion of will. With the same power, he could lift the dirt from his skin and shed the sticks and mud from his hair, but it would do nothing for the bone-deep chill and exhaustion he felt. For that, only a long soak would do. When he sank into that waiting water, the angel couldn't help the breathy, shaky moan that escaped him, almost a sob. It was rapturous, the heat seeping into him, the sudden unclenching of muscles he didn't know he'd been holding tight.  
  
That sound made Crowley’s heart ache. It was so weary, so forlorn. Four years in a pagan god's private circle of hell... he couldn't imagine it. Well. He could imagine it somewhat. At least the Fall hadn't taken four years. 

Once he heard the splash and resulting sounds, Crowley felt safe in sitting by the tub, leaning back against the side. The salts had made the bathwater cloudy-white, providing the angel some modesty. "The water should stay hot for as long as you need it, so take your time." Was there anything else he should be doing? He was at a loss. A hot bath to wash, and then… bed? Yes. Pajamas, hot drink, book, bed - soft, familiar things to soothe his angel’s frayed nerves. "Feel a little better?"  
  
"My dear, I am deeply in your debt. This is so very much better," Aziraphale murmured, considering that a fairly safe way to compliment a demon. Picking up the goats-milk and ash-lye soap bar, he rubbed it into a foam to wash his hair and body. By the time he was done bathing, the water was the color of old gravy. Frankly, it would take another few baths before he was completely clean, but he lacked the energy to go through the process again. He made a disgruntled sound and then looked over at Crowley, all big dewy eyes and plastered-down wet hair. "I'm going to get out now."

Now his friend just looked like a sad, wet dog, and it was both painful and adorable. Crowley wanted to cradle that face in his hands. "Er, right. Here." Pulling two big, fluffy towels off a nearby stool and putting them on the bath mat, he then stood up and moved away to lean against the doorframe, facing away. "Should I run and get you something to change into, angel?"

"Oh, would you? My nightshirts are in the baskets on the top shelf in the bedroom." 

With a nod and a soft hum, the demon went to do just that. 

Aziraphale stepped out and wrapped one of the towels around his waist, using the other to dry his wet skin. The creamy fabric darkened to a murky grey from the residue still clinging to him. So tired. He very badly wanted to lay down.

By this point, Crowley knew the layout of Aziraphale's villa quite well; therefore, he had no trouble hunting down a crisp, cream-colored nightshirt and the slip-on house shoes lined with rabbit fur that the angel favored. They met in the hallway, and Crowley was glad to see the angel looking a bit more like himself again (and trying to not be distracted by the fact that he was only wearing a towel). There was more color, more softness, the skin warm-pink, the snowy hair rolling itself back into ringlets as it dried. "Here we are," he said, offering the gathered items.

The angel took them, holding them to his damp chest and looking close to tearing up. "Tell me something, please,” he whispered. 

Crowley saw the telltale signs of a person about to cry and immediately began to fret. Was it the wrong nightshirt? Wrong shoes? Bath too hot? "Tell you... Tell you what, angel?" Concern was plain in his tone, though his voice was lower.

Not the sort to get weepy over trifles (or at least, not what he'd consider trifles), Aziraphale looked down at the soft fur slippers and blinked his vision clear. "Tell me something about you. Tell me something I don't know, but I'll know is true. I don't want this to be a dream. I'm so afraid I've fallen asleep.”

“Oh.” Crowley blinked and cringed internally - his friend must have been subjected to countless illusions and nightmares, if he'd lost the ability to discern them from reality. It must have been terrible, the constant fear of waking up and finding himself still Down There. "Well... let me think." The serpent stroked his chin, eyes moving to the side. "Ah, here's one: did you know that I have an original copy of _Don Quixote_? Signed by Cervantes himself. I, uh..." He flushed lightly by the ears. "...I was going to surprise you with it when we got back to England."

"My goodness, I've heard of that. I haven't gotten a chance to read it.” The answer didn’t give Aziraphale the reassurance he had hoped for; he could have just as easily dreamt of Crowley telling him anything and never been able to tell the difference. “But why would you go to such lengths for me?" 

“You know why.” Crowley’s voice was soft, raspy. 

The angel’s expression became so tender, so pained. "I - oh, Crowley, you make things so difficult. I haven't got choices I can make. I think I can feel Heaven again. It's like ice melting from a river, but I feel it." 

Crowley nodded. “I know. I can feel my connection down below coming back, too.” He understood that his feelings and actions made things tricky for Aziraphale, but he wouldn't apologize.

Aziraphale nodded, and then swallowed. "It’s... It's not completely clear yet." He started toward the bedroom, but turned back. "Please?"

They weren’t Alone, no, but it was true that the connection to Hell was staticy; it would take a few tries for them to locate him again. "Let me freshen up and change my clothes," he replied softly, moving towards the bathroom. "And I'll be right there. Won't be but a minute."

Nodding, Aziraphale shuffled to the bedroom and put on the nightshirt, the slippers, and also a pair of short, loose-cut cotton underclothes. A quick miracle cast off the dust on the comforter, and then the angel sat on the bed and looked around the room. According to Crowley, he'd been here only a few months ago, having just recently moved in before they'd set off for the New World. The once-familiar room felt hollow, the giving texture of the mattress a stranger. In the past, he had only slept once in a while, usually after particularly hard work or distressing emotional events. Tonight he would sleep again, and he prayed softly that he would also wake.

True to his word, Crowley freshened up in exactly one minute; with a few quick gestures, he was clean from head to toe, his hair was detangled and rested in gentle waves over his shoulders, and a knee-length, black silk nightshirt adorned his body. He’d also gotten rid of the clinging jungle stench, now smelling vaguely of fresh-cut grass and wood-smoke. Much better. _A right proper sleeping partner,_ he thought, and then blushed and mentally kicked himself. A moment later, he joined Aziraphale in the bedroom, carrying a cup of milk and a couple of date-walnut cookies; these, he put on the nightstand. "Goodness," he murmured. "You don't realize how nice it is to have things like milk and tea around until you don't have 'em."

Aziraphale's eyes fixated on the cookies, and he reached out and then stopped. It had been so long since he'd eaten. He hadn't lost much weight overall, but his stomach had been empty for months, and he wasn't ready for such rich food. "Maybe in the morning." The milk wouldn't think to spoil during the night, he knew. "But thank you. It’s a welcome gesture." 

Crowley shrugged. "No problem. Just in case you were hungry." 

So thoughtful. Aziraphale smiled softly, then drew the bedcovers back to lay down and tuck his feet in. He left the covers over the spot next to him rather conspicuously open, an unspoken invitation.

The serpent saw it. Surely this once, after such a harrowing experience, it would be all right to seek comfort? Surely. He swallowed, and then climbed into the bed, tugging the covers over his legs. "... I assume you don't want me to blow the candles out?"

"Maybe leave them, just for a while?" The angel smiled and felt the lines on his face with a weight he was unused to. His hand rested on Crowley's shoulder as the other settled in, bleeding comfort through that touch. _I'm here. You're here. I'm here._ "Is that alright?"

Crowley put his hand over his friend’s and half-smiled. "S'fine, angel. They can burn all night." The serpent's sunglasses had long since been lost in the jungle, and so his golden eyes were wide and unguarded as he looked at Aziraphale. Fondness was in those eyes, reassurance in the crow's feet, affection in the laugh lines. 

"I know we don't touch." Angels didn't touch often as a rule, not unless they were very close. "I know _we_ don't." Except they did - they had whenever they could get away with it. "But, please... just- please, for tonight?" Smoky blue eyes searched Crowley’s face. Aziraphale wasn't sure what, exactly, he wanted, but he knew it involved keeping Crowley close. He’d take as much of that as he could.

Please, he said. Many times. The angel wanted him close, close enough to touch. His angel. Just for tonight. Surely, the powers that be would understand, were they ever to find out. "Whatever you need," Crowley murmured. "I could hold you, if you like, or touch your hair, or give you some healing massage... what do the Chinese call it... _tui-na_? Supposed to be relaxing. Any of those, or all of them, or something else. Tell me, and I'll do it."

The outpouring of offers had Aziraphale tongue-tied for a few seconds. "Yes, ah, massage. That sounds nice. Rather like those times in the desert when you would preen my wings, yes?" He gave Crowley a fond look, something of his own self returning in remembering that. 

"Yeah, kind of like that," Crowley agreed, wearing a similarly fond look. Suddenly he was very glad that he'd taken a few _tui-na_ lessons to round out his skillset. Now he just had to remain calm. “I remember. Your wings were so hopelessly itchy from the sand, and you turned your blessed great eyes on me - well of course I had to sort them for you.” And then it had become a shared comfort for a little while. 

The angel remembered that, while Crowley (then Crawly) had teased him, he’d also been very attentive. Why had they stopped doing that? When had angels decided that touching was a problem? When did everyone get so boxed off? He felt light-headed, as if he'd had a few too many cups of wheat beer - a little softer, more amenable to suggestion. “I remember. You were so gentle.”

The demon coughed and flushed around the cheekbones. “Yeah, well.” A thought occurred to him. “Ah- massage is usually done on bare skin, with oils. Are you... would you be okay with that? You could keep your drawers on, if you like." 

"Oh, er." Aziraphale was hesitant, but the idea sounded so very, very nice. "Yes, it'll be fine. There’s olive oil in the pantry - it shouldn’t be rancid yet."

"Right. Be right back." Scooting out of the bed, Crowley hurried to the kitchen, and opened up the pantry. There had to be some... ah! Right at the bottom was a small amphora of olive oil, and it was still fresh! Good. Holding it carefully, he returned to Aziraphale's room. 

"Good news! There's plenty of olive oil left."

“Ah! Jolly good.” Aziraphale looked up, his face brightening and returning to a smile from... something decidedly other than that. An expression of dread that had claimed him in the mere seconds Crowley had been gone. Nevermind, his posture said, it was nothing. "Oh - we should probably put down some towels." The ones from his bath were still damp and already needed to be washed, but they'd do fine for this purpose. A quick snap summoned them to the bedroom. 

"Right, towels. Good idea.”

Stripping his nightshirt off and tossing it over the footboard, the demon revealed that he was also wearing a pair of short, black underpants - the loose pajama fabric would get in the way, after all. Towels, oil, dimmed lighting, warm fire on the hearth... he would've liked the circumstances to be better, but it would do. 

Yes, he could give the angel comfort this way, and enjoy a little physical contact himself while he was at it. He could do this.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, found himself far more at peace than perhaps he should’ve been. Somewhere within him, a thin sliver, a panicked shred of the angel's mind, was trying to tell him _not_ to do this, to restrain himself, be Good and Proper. Well, he thought, that part of him could stuff it. The angel knew that he was acting off, that he’d normally never dare to be so bold, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Aziraphale blamed it on having been trapped in a shifting nightmare dimension full of unseen, terrifying things that were hunting him, endlessly driving him to the edge of exhaustion yet never quite past it. Given all that, he’d earned the right to be a little mad, hadn't he? So he shook out the towels and laid them down to protect his bed, then removed his nightshirt. As he did so, it was easier to see the strange symbol on the angel’s wrist, no longer obscured by grime. It was difficult to say what kind of symbol it was, or why it was even there, and neither of the supernaturals cared to address it. Yet. 

Turning slightly, the angel caught sight of Crowley in his small pants and smiled widely. "Oh my, those are darling." 

The demon was in the middle of tying his hair back when Aziraphale unexpectedly commented on his underwear, and blood rather suddenly rushed up his neck and tinted his ears. That was… happening a lot lately. "Ghff. E-Er... thank you." Clearing his throat, he patted the towels. "Here, lay on your stomach, and then I'll sit across your legs." 

With a nod, Aziraphale stretched himself out as requested. With only his undergarments obscuring his form, the subtle changes to his physique were more noticeable, especially the hip and thigh muscles that had grown taut and toned from endless walking. As he settled down and folded his arms under his head, his back shifted and flexed like a leopard's, and the demon tried not to gawk.

 _Oh, give me strength_. Shaking his head, Crowley grabbed the amphora, climbed up on the bed, and situated himself so that he was comfortably straddling the angel's mid-thigh area. Pouring a little oil into one hand and setting the bottle aside, he rubbed his palms together and then started kneading the shoulder muscles. Goodness, they were like cast iron!

The angel made an interesting sound, a gasping, shivering, high-pitched moan that nearly made Crowley jerk his hands away (and caused a distinct tingling sensation in his groin area. Thank bloody Hell he'd decided to go with a blank slate this time). 

“Sorry - too much?”  
  
“No, no, just a bit of a shock.” Aziraphale hadn't anticipated such an intense reaction and sounded a trifle flustered. “Been quite some time since I’ve been touched, is all.” 

The serpent hummed in acknowledgement and then continued, relieved. 

Gooseflesh rippled over the skin wherever Crowley’s hands made contact, and the rigid muscle tension began to ease. Breathing gently, more slowly than a human would, Aziraphale gave himself over to the relaxation, letting his eyes close and his mind drift. 

As the muscles slowly softened, Crowley focused on the angel’s neck and shoulders for a few minutes (quite a few knots in there) and then moved down to the back muscles and hips, using the side of his hand and forearms to do long, sweeping motions that could cover large patches of skin at a time.

"Oh, my,” Aziraphale sighed dreamily. “I might fall asleep from this, if that's alright with you."

Crowley chuckled. "Of course, angel. Just relax, and let me take care of you for a little while." 

Stretching an arm out toward the headboard, Aziraphale sighed and all but melted. "You always take care of me,” he mumbled, and then sniffled and pressed his face into the pillow. He was cracking; he could feel it. Everything he'd been holding together was coming loose, unfurling, causing him to whimper. For fuck's sake, he never _whimpered_. He was proud and dignified and powerful and... he sniffled like a child and wiped his eyes against his forearm. "I'm sorry, Crowley."

Crowley was better at listening through touch. He could feel the air leaving the angel's body in a long, wavering sigh. He could feel the taut back muscles grow more malleable. He could feel the tension locked the hips seeping away. He could feel armor creaking and defenses crumbling. Something was bound to leak out now; in this case, it was many, many fat, round tears. "Nothin' to be sorry for, angel," he soothed, rocking his forearm into the meat of the angel's backside, leaning his body weight into it for a deeper reach.

"I just- what I mean to say is, you’ve been looking out for me for so long.” Aziraphale sounded so very weary. “At least since Lusitania, that I remember, and I- _oh!_ " He made a positively lurid sound of surprised pleasure, wriggling under Crowley's ministrations and panting lightly as he recovered. "Goodness. And- um... And, I have to say, I feel an absolute ass for how stubborn I've been. I've doubted you, and I've been- _ah!_ \- uh-unreasonable. And you- you’ve been so…" He huffed and gave up on trying to find words that wouldn't result in anxious stuttering, letting his head sink into the pillow.

Now it was words that were leaking out. These ones were kind, and made that soft glow form in Crowley’s chest again. He kept moving, refusing to lose his rhythm, knowing now that the sounds being made were good and not a pain signal. The other buttock came next, getting focused attention, before he laid a palm on each cheek and pushed in with kneading motions.  
  
"I can't say it didn't sting a little sometimes," the demon admitted. "But I tried not to take it personally. We're both under- oh, tight spot here. Breathe out slowly for me…” Crowley was rewarded with another toe-curling moan. “There we are. Er- we're both under a lot of stress from our bosses, and well, it's... we're... complicated." 

"Yes,” the angel sighed. Their bosses. How _had_ they gotten that way? The Archangels had been perfectly amicable in the beginning: friendly, kind, supportive of their charges. But after the rebellion, all of that had leached away, leaving only a bitter, obnoxious, and fearful husk of what Heaven had once been. "I think I'd like to resign my post. Maybe I'll join a crew of buccaneers, sail and plunder on the open sea. Doesn’t that sound like fun?" Aziraphale was nearly giggling by now; undoubtedly, he was giddy from endorphins and exhaustion, but the dissatisfaction was entirely real. 

“It does, actually." Resignation was something Crowley never heard the angel mention directly, but he'd sensed that unhappiness lurking under the surface for a while now… mostly because it was lurking inside him, too. He was a terrible demon, and the Lord of the Flies and the Dukes were always riding him to do better. Or worse, rather. 

"Would you come with me, dear? Be my first mate?"

Crowley had a vivid mental image of them sailing the high seas together, rowdy and tipsy. "Absolutely," he said, a laugh making his voice shake. "Just imagine it: you and me, raising hell on a ship. We can raid spice ships and free slaves, and have a one-eyed cat named Blackbeard.”

"Ooh, I like spices. Cardamom, nutmeg… cinnamon, oh, I _love_ cinnamon. Mm. That sounds so nice." Making a soft purring sound, Aziraphale dozed off, the lines of his face softening.

Crowley blinked when the angel rather suddenly fell asleep, and then smiled and shook his head. Silly creature. But at least his companion could finally rest. He finished up by working on the hamstrings, then wiped the angel's back down with a wet cloth, covered the amphora, pulled his nightshirt back on, and got into the bed. Drawing the thick covers up over both of them, he settled in and quickly sank into slumber.

***

For three, maybe four hours, Aziraphale slept deeply. Then, he began to grow somewhat warm, and then quite warm, and then he began to shiver; twisting around so that he was facing Crowley, he snuggled up closer in search of more heat. By the fifth hour, the angel was shaking, burning hot, and nuzzling into the sleeping demon's collarbone in a half-awake daze, muttering some unintelligible repeated phrase under his breath.

It didn’t take long for that fevered shifting and trembling to nudge the demon awake. "Mmh...?" Then concern woke him fully. “Oh-!” Aziraphale was flush against his body; the skin was hot to the touch and slick with sweat, but he was shivering violently and muttering. A nightmare? "Angel? Hey... angel, wake up." He patted one cheek lightly.

"Miss you," Aziraphale was murmuring, clutching at Crowley’s pajamas. "I miss you." Tugging himself forward, he pressed dry lips to the side of his companion's chin, not really aiming, barely a kiss. Dark circles were clearly visible beneath unfocused eyes. "I wish I was with you again."  
  
“Bollocks,” Crowley whispered, Aziraphale wasn't simply having a nightmare; he was hallucinating. He pulled the covers up around them firmly like a cocoon, trying to stop the shivering. That fever was concerning; if it rose much higher, it would be dangerous for the angel's fragile human corporation. He held those round cheeks gently, pressing their foreheads together and trying to draw some of the heat away. "I’m here, I’m right here. You’re all right.”

Trapped inside his own head, the angel was far from that candle-lit room; he was back in the soul-consuming darkness, shivering with cold and holding onto a wishful illusion. This one looked so much like Crowley; it even sounded like him, even if the words were garbled and far away. "I wish I was with you again," Aziraphale repeated. The image was translucent and ephemeral, but he could still feel it, a warm presence in his arms. _It isn’t real,_ he told himself. This place played tricks on the mind; it had been trying to make him give up for so long, tormenting him with his desires and regrets. However, it had made a mistake: it showed him a vision of his oldest and dearest friend, which only made the angel more determined to get out.

The illusion tried to speak again, more broken and jumbled words in his friend’s concerned voice. Pressing his too-dry hand to Crowley's translucent cheek, the angel smiled. "I know. I know everything you've been telling me. I wish I could have told you, but I was so afraid they'd come for you. And I would have fought to stop them until they slew me. But now I know I would kill angels to stop them from taking you. I'm coming home, and I'm going to show you how much I miss you. I promise." The small fire he'd built when he’d stopped to rest began to burn brighter, crackling loudly. Aziraphale found that odd, but fire kept the … _things_ lurking in the shadows further away, so he was glad for it. As if the heat were melting it away, the illusion of his friend dissipated into nothing as the flames continued to grow. The fire had become scorchingly hot, threatening to spread beyond its boundaries, to consume everything it could reach - and oddly, Aziraphale found he did not fear it.

The stream of words pouring from Aziraphale's mouth were treasonous. Confounding. _Wonderful_ , Crowley thought. No time to dwell on them just yet, for the Celestial’s fever was spiking again, and Aziraphale had lapsed back into unconsciousness. Crowley had to lower his companion’s temperature, quickly. Passing a hand over the angel's forehead, he attempted to relieve it. However, as with the mark on Aziraphale’s wrist that couldn't be healed, the demon’s power had no discernible effect on the fever.  
  
_Fuck!_ Medicine wouldn't work quickly enough. This left only one option the demon could think of. He wrenched himself away from Aziraphale and slipped from the bed, more candles lighting around him as he hurried down the hall to the bathroom.

Reaching out, Aziraphale put his hand into the flame, it did not burn. He felt that pleasant warmth fill him, and his eyes opened, suddenly finding himself back in the bedroom in Cordoba and shaking so violently that he wondered for a moment if he had woken during an earthquake. But no, the trembling was in him; he could feel his body straining. Aziraphale had never been ill, had no clue what this feeling was, this hot-cold lightheadedness. But he was distressed, and he was alone. Panic took hold and he forced himself to sit up, only to fall over again in a rush of vertigo. "C-Cr-" _Calm down, you idiot!_ Setting his jaw, Aziraphale started to get up again, slower this time. He'd stand - by the light above, he would get to his feet and walk out.

At that moment, Crowley rushed back in with a bowl of water and ice, a cloth slung over his arm. Just in time, too, because his incorrigible angel was trying to get up! "Angel! No, no, you need to stay in bed.” 

“But I don’t _want_ to,” Aziraphale huffed. “I have too much to do.”

So the angel was just lucid enough to be a pain. Brilliant. "If you get out of bed in that condition, so help me Satan, I will smack you in the mouth. Lay down."

" _Will_ you, now?" The tone of voice was... interesting. "Didn't think you'd be up for that." 

The threat might've been a teeny-tiny bluff (smacking a dizzy sick person was a bad idea), but Crowley wasn't going to address that. Instead, he merely scowled. “Just lay down, you git.”  
  
Grumbling, Aziraphale did so, having had enough of the room spinning, anyway. When his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his overheated brain convinced him that the beams were wavering like plucked guitar strings. "Boats... I don’t really _like_ boats, you know. Not since the whole Ark business.” A thin chuckle. “Makes it hard to be a pirate." Noticing the bowl in Crowley's hands, he found he could focus on something solid. "What have you got there, my duck?"

Ignoring the odd pet name, Crowley set the bowl on the nightstand and put the cloth into it. "It's water, with ice. We’ve got to lower this fever before you discorporate." He’d had a mind to prepare a proper ice bath, but that required cooperation, and this was not a cooperative being. 

"Fever?” 

"Yes, fever."

“But... I'm an angel. I don't _get_ ill." 

“Normally, I’d agree.” Crowley pulled the cloth from the bowl and wrung it out. “But I saw enough illness during the plague to know what a fever looks like, and you’ve got one.” Once the angel was settled, he spread the wet fabric over that sweltering forehead. “Now, stay put while I get you some medicine and extra blankets.”

Now that he thought about it, Aziraphale did feel oddly weak and shivery. "Yes, blankets would be nice,” he murmured. “And perhaps a hot grog? I'll go put the pot on." For the second time, he attempted to rise.

"I said, _lay down._ " Crowley planted a firm hand on the angel's chest, keeping him off-balance; thankfully, Aziraphale was too sick to fight him. “I will not have you falling and cracking your head open." 

Flopping back into the feather cushions, the angel gave an almost petulant huff and rolled his head back. "You are being ridiculous, but... if you insist."   
  
"Thank you."  
  
It didn't take long to miracle up a mug of hot water, rum, and lime juice, or to find the extra quilt resting over the couch. Thankfully, Aziraphale had drifted off again by the time he returned, so the demon could tend to him without a fight. Crowley put the grog on the nightstand beside the milk and cookies, and then switched the warmed cloth on Aziraphale’s forehead for a cold one. Afterwards, he gingerly draped the quilt over the sleeping celestial and tucked the sides in. Then, he pulled a cushioned footstool to the bedside, sat, and kept watch.

A few hours passed before the fever finally broke, and Crowley breathed a sigh of relief as his friend’s temperature and colour slowly returned to normal. Free of fitful fever dreams, Aziraphale slept soundly, with only an occasional twitch of the fingers or faint movement of his eyes below the lids. When he was sure the immediate danger had passed, the demon allowed himself to nod off, face resting in folded arms on the edge of the bed.

Intuition woke Crowley about thirty minutes later, and the demon looked anxiously around the room, his heart pounding. He couldn’t see anything out of place; nothing had changed, save the shortened candlesticks. No one else was there. He flared his nostrils and breathed in, giving the briefest of tongue flicks, and still found nothing unusual.

However, centuries of vigilance had taught the serpent to know when he was being watched, and his senses were on high alert. Something was moving in the room - a flicker of shadow, always just in the periphery but still too distinct to be ignored. The air in the room hung heavy and still, all the candles burning in straight columns, and there was no sound save for the angel’s slow breathing and Crowley’s own pulse in his ears. 

Then suddenly, a burst of wind rattled the shutters and hinged window panes, throwing them open, and shrieking across the roof tiles. Shielding his face against the fierce wind, the demon yelped and waited for it to pass, then ran to the open window. 

Nothing was there but the deep, sleepy shades of night, with a few distant diamond stars. Crickets chirped softly, unperturbed. Whatever had been there, whatever presence had been observing them, could no longer be felt.  
  
"What the fuck?!" Crowley hissed, closing the window and firmly locking the shutters. Every candle in the room had been blown out; a second later, they flared back to life.

Mercifully, the ruckus had not roused Aziraphale (though he did make a soft, mewing sort of sound and curl deeper into the blankets), and the demon was glad for that. The poor fellow needed all the rest he could get - and so did Crowley, who suddenly felt very small and uncertain. Sighing, he labelled the whole thing as ‘one very cocked-up night’, crawled into the bed from the other side, and went to sleep with a hand resting on the angel's arm (under the covers). 

Undisturbed, the pair slept well into the late morning.


	5. Angel Of The Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything is changing - and it seems to all be coming up Crowley!  
> Here's where things start to get spicy, so if you're a puritan you might want to skip this one. ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update - we had good reasons.
> 
> Special thanks to our beta reader, joy_shines!

When Aziraphale awoke, he felt as though he'd been remade. Everything was washed in the gentle glow of morning, and he was free of chill and ache, hale and refreshed, as if his last four years had been nothing but a foul dream. And, he noted with some surprise, Crowley was in his bed. Sitting up, Aziraphale observed his sleeping companion with a familiar, aching fondness. The demon was so impossibly lovely, with his tousled polished-penny hair and delicately severe features, that the angel couldn't help but gently brush a wayward curl from that pale temple. 

The previous night was muddled at best, but he remembered what was important: the care, the concern, the near-confessions. Emotion swelled in Aziraphale’s chest, and something gripped him for a moment, some strange force outside of his own mind - and though the angel knew it was alien, he wasn't afraid of it. It told him what he needed to do, and he did it. A sudden burst of power expanded outward from the angel like a bubble, with a soft _'whoomp'_ of sound as the sphere of will settled into place. Blinking back to himself, Aziraphale felt a buzzing sort of sensation flow through his hand and forearm turning it up to inspect the mark on his wrist. It was no longer black, now more of a muted blue-grey, and he breathed deep in the hope that it would continue to fade.

At the shifting beside him, the serpent crept back into consciousness, yellow eyes opening slowly, lids heavy with fading dreams. Smacking his lips a few times, he turned over on his side to look at his friend. Aziraphale was still in the bed, sitting and watching him, positively rosy-cheeked and healthy again. "You're looking much better today, angel," Crowley remarked groggily. "Thank goodness." Covering his mouth to yawn softly, he rolled onto his back again to stretch, humming as his arms reached over his head and fingers spread. He wasn't used to waking up next to someone. It was... kind of nice.

Smiling, Aziraphale leaned close and whispered, "We're alone." When he sat back up, he looked as smug and punctilious as he ever did, very much as if he were proud of himself for getting away with something, hands nested together in his lap, head tilted just so. 

Crowley studied that fetching and mischievous expression, still only half-awake. "Er... well, yeah, I guess technically we are." Then he paused. Turned his head from side to side. Listened. Not just alone, but _Alone_ . In _Spain_. "How the-?" He sat up abruptly, looking baffled. “How are we- How did this happen?”

"I did that." The angel still wore that canary-eating smile, eyes twinkling as if filled with the knowledge of a great cosmic joke even She would laugh at. "I realized that I might do it, and therefore I did." It seemed quite simple, the way he said it, as if it should be blatant to anyone. "I couldn’t wait for another chance to go to the New World, my wilding culver, not when we have so much to say."

While he was delighted that they were Alone, Crowley also felt a tickle of unease. Didn’t the ability to be Alone hinge on the area being consecrated to a pagan god? Suddenly, Aziraphale could just... do it? Were they really Alone, or was Aziraphale just teasing him again? 

No time to dwell on that, however, because there was an angel rather suddenly in his personal space. Familiar fingers traced along Crowley's arm nearest to him, tickling the soft skin. He looked... determined, bold, almost fierce. "I made a promise, a long time ago. I don't expect you'd know about that; it was a promise I made to myself, when I was below. Nonetheless, I do intend to keep it."

The demon felt his foolish heart flutter, both from the touch and that intense expression, and he swallowed. "And what promise was that, angel?"

"That if I found my way back to you, I would tell you exactly what you are to me. I’d tell you that I know how you feel, and- and that I'd show you everything I've been hiding from you all these centuries." Sitting up so that he was bent over Crowley, the angel's strong hand curled around his companion's slender wrist, holding it firmly, but not tightly, against the bed.

Touching, touching was happening; touching was being done very suddenly. The demon’s pulse was visibly beating in his throat. Exactly what he was to the angel? Everything that was hidden? Was this... was he dreaming? No, that solid grip on his wrist and that peculiar silence were both quite real. Oh, lord. He needed to calm down, and found that he could not. "Sssso tell me," he rasped.

There was still a hesitance, a tremble in the jaw, an uncertainty held at bay by a stronger need. Aziraphale merely held the demon's wrist, feeling that frantic pulse, for a long moment. Eventually he said, "You are the cleverest, funniest, most insufferable and wonderful creature I have ever known."

" _What?!_ " Crowley squeaked, actually _squeaked_ , as blood completely bypassed his neck and rushed straight into his face. His heart was not ready for this, and it swelled with happiness all the same. Embarrassed, he turned away, covering his eyes with his free hand and making a soft, flustered noise. Words were scrambled in his brain.

"Crowley, you will look at me, and you will hear me." Aziraphale moved his hand from his friend's wrist to his turned shoulder, letting his arm untwist. An edge of desperation came into his voice. “I need you to hear me. Please.”

It was the ‘please’ that convinced Crowley to turn back towards Aziraphale, one yellow eye peeking out from behind his fingers, and the angel’s tone and face softened. "You are kinder than most angels I know, smarter than any demon I've met, and when you smile, I feel like I’m flying,” he continued. “You are a rotten scoundrel, and a menace, and sometimes I think you're a better person than I am. I've struggled, and I've hurt you because I've been afraid - because I'm a coward. And I don’t think a hundred lifetimes would be long enough to give you the apologies and recompense that you deserve."

Listening quietly, Crowley felt the joy inside him grow until he feared that his heart might explode in his chest. He wasn't allowed to feel like this. It was against the rules. It had to be a jinx. "I don't know what to say," he finally whispered. "I really don't. No one talks to me like this. Ever. Not even in Heaven."

"To be fair, nobody knew anything about anyone in Heaven,” Aziraphale muttered. “And they still don't. They've just become petty and mean, and frankly, I wouldn’t mind if things changed." He sighed heavily, burdened with the knowledge that Heaven could stand to be better, and then refocused on his flushed companion, rubbing that slender shoulder gently, remembering what his companion had done for him when he was in pain and unable to rest. "Are you alright, dear? You’re red as a beet.” 

"M’fine," Crowley replied in a wavering voice, still unable to remove his hand from his face. "Just crumbling into a thousand pieces of a happy idiot, that's all.” 

“I know it was rather sudden, having me say all that. And I do hate to cause you distress. But believe me, it had to be said." 

The demon’s chest did feel tight, almost painfully so, but it was the same kind of discomfort that accompanied the burn of whiskey and cannabis smoke - it stirred the body and soul, brought it to life. It was a pain he didn't know he needed. “If manhandling me and whispering sweet nothings is your idea of causing distress, then..." His hand finally slid down, the fingertips brushing his mouth in a vaguely wicked manner. "... maybe you could do it more often."

"Manhandling? Oh for- _really,_ Crowley!" Aziraphale laughed, genuinely relaxed and happy, if a bit incredulous. "You're impossible." 

The serpent beamed. “That’s me.” 

Rolling his eyes and smiling, the angel switched to gently stroking that coppery hair. "I _could_ do it more often, you know. I've been practicing. Oh - maybe I shouldn't tell you." That bastard tone was creeping right in there again. “If a little well-deserved affection has you so distraught, _this_ might be too much." 

"You're probably right." Crowley felt the tension in his shoulders dissolve, basking in the warmth of that affectionate needling. “Still, you should tell me."

Aziraphale snorted softly as he pushed himself up and sat with his back to the headboard. "Very well. Since we made our Arrangement and some of your work got shifted my way, I've had a chance to get better acquainted with _certain aspects_ of temptation and human activity. And, well, some of my practice was very... intimate.” At the time, he had tried to convince himself that it was a learning experience, part of understanding the human experience, but he had to admit to himself that he’d taken said ‘practice’ far beyond what was necessary for such research. 

Oh. That kind of practice. Crowley rolled over and propped himself up on his elbow, to fully face Aziraphale, feeling heat spread across his skin. "Really." 

“Well, I was alone down there for quite a long time,” the angel explained, making a dismissive gesture. “There were moments where it was horrible, of course, and I was terrified. But for the most part, it was utterly, crushingly _boring_. I had to find ways to stay focused, and that was as good a way as any."

Of _all_ angels, Crowley thought, only Aziraphale would think of wanking to distract himself from the fact that he was in some heathen deity’s version of Hell. "So... what did you learn about yourself?" 

"To be honest, I learned that it's far less pleasant if you're dirty and cold than if you're not,” the celestial grumbled, and Crowley very nearly snorted. “But it was still something to do other than walking and feeling sorry for myself. I also learned that I was traveling in circles after I started doing it. And I-" He exhaled briskly and rolled his eyes, embarrassment flushing across his cheeks. "-I thought about you. I learned that I, erm, I very much like thinking about you. About things I would do to you, or for you."

“Oh.” Crowley blushed to the roots of his hair. So there was another thing they had in common, then. “Guess I can’t really point fingers. I also, uh-” _Nope, stop right there_. “Th-That is, the feeling is mutual,” he stammered. That pouty expression was so endearing that he wanted to kiss the angel’s rosy cheeks. 

“Oh,” breathed Aziraphale, a sound of both relief and surprise. “Oh, my… truly?”

"Really and truly. If we're confessing here, I've, uh… well, ever since Eden, you were always in my thoughts in one sense or another. The times we’ve spent together in private." The demon coughed. "I think about that often, when I… y’know."

“Good gracious me.” 

Both of them had gone peony-pink and were struggling to hold eye contact. 

  
Crowley found himself almost involuntarily breaking the moment of awkward silence by abruptly sitting up. “I’d wager you’re hungry, aren’t you? Could do with a nibble myself. What if I just run out and get us something for breakfast, yeah?”  
  
Aziraphale looked somewhat baffled. “Crowley, you don’t have to -”  
  
“It’s no problem, really,” the demon rambled, all but falling out of bed in his haste. “Please, let me. I won’t be but a minute - maybe ten. Quick, I’ll be back quick, trust me, angel.” He reflexively snapped his fingers, and then made an exasperated noise when nothing happened. Right, their powers were suppressed, of course they were - a trickle of unease went down Crowley’s spine as he realized that they really _were_ Alone, that Aziraphale really had pulled it off. 

No time to dwell on that. He needed to get out of this room, out of this _house_ , as quickly as possible, so he could calm down before his poor human heart gave out. Hustling to the closet, Crowley dragged out a pair of Aziraphale’s leggings, frantically trying to pull them on and nearly tipping over twice in the process. When he’d managed that, he stripped his nightshirt off and pulled a tunic over his head. Both clothing items were almost comically too big for him, but he didn’t care. “Is there- bless it-” He was hopping around on one foot now, putting his boots on. “Is there anything you want?” 

“I suppose the pantry _is_ rather wanting.” the angel noted mildly, nibbling on one of the nearby cookies as he watched the show unfold. “And I am hungry.” _Very hungry, and for more than just pastries._ “Perhaps some sweet rolls, or tarts?”

“Sweet rolls or tarts, got it.”

“Please do come back soon, my dear. I still have a lot to tell you.”  
  
“Of course, yes, you’ll hardly know I’ve gone.” And then Crowley was out the door, holding his too-big leggings up by the waistband.  
  
Once he was outside, a quick snap ensured that his borrowed clothing fit him properly and that his wrecked hair was tied back in a neat plait with a thin satin ribbon. There, now he didn’t look like a complete imbecile. Luckily, the villa was only a quick jog from a small market block, with a greengrocer, butcher, and bakery, the last of which lured passers-by inside with warm, buttery scents. _Just the thing_ , Crowley thought, as the little bell over the bakery door announced his entry.  
  
In the meantime, Aziraphale stretched and got out of bed at a more leisurely pace. He changed out of his nightwear, opting for some comfortable slacks, a loose tunic, and his rabbit-fur slippers. Afterwards, he dawdled into the kitchen to move the sweets and drinks from the bedside table and then put some tea on. His tea brick of choice was one that had come from India, a rare variety from Assam which the British East India Trading Company was just starting to cultivate. But this, he felt, was a special occasion, and the rich and floral exotic tea felt like just the thing.

When Crowley returned from his shopping, multiple wrapped packages in hand, he would find Aziraphale had laid out some plates and flatware on the small dining table, along with a steeping pot of tea.

  
“Oh - you’re up,” he remarked lamely as he put the parcels on the nearby counter.  
  
“Well, it wouldn’t do to have breakfast without tea,” the angel replied in a prim tone. “And it _has_ been a long time since I’ve had a civilized meal at a table, with cutlery and all.”  
  
The demon merely raised his eyebrows and hummed in a ‘true enough’ manner. Eating at the table would at the very least be more familiar, and much more manageable than the intimacy of the bedroom. Unwrapping his purchases, he laid out warm bread with fresh butter, sweet honeyed buns, and custard-filled tarts topped with figs and cherries - each option had looked so good that he’d been unable to choose. (The baker was very pleased.)

Aziraphale was likewise delighted by the selection, as his appetite had returned after the night’s slumber. He chose one of each, while Crowley satisfied himself with one of the tarts. The tea, mixed with milk, was wonderfully flavorful and paired nicely with the pastries. The angel exclaimed and hummed over each one, making the demon preen just a little. He was vastly relieved to see his friend in better spirits. However, once their meal was finished and the dishes were being gathered for washing, he couldn’t help but notice that the overall energy had dipped slightly.  
  
“You alright, angel?”  
  
“Oh, yes, I just think I need to rest. I don’t have the energy I’d like, quite yet.” Aziraphale put the stacked plates on the counter and took a slow breath. Crowley was watching him from the table, not moving but ready to catch him if he wobbled.  
  
“Right, ‘course. Take as much time as you need. I’ll take care of these dishes.”  
  
“Ah. I was rather hoping you’d come lay down with me.”

“Oh.” His heart skipped a beat, the useless thing. “Yeah, all right.”

Ordinarily, the baked goods and tea spoiling would have been a concern; however, Crowley expected them to stay hot and fresh, so they would. The pair made their way back into the bedroom, and Crowley felt the soft sensation of passing through that invisible barrier (apparently it was a permanent fixture). Aziraphale climbed into bed first, and the serpent joined him after blowing out the candles, as there was plenty of natural light in the room now. It was both completely bizarre and perfectly natural to share a bed with his friend, as it was something Crowley had always wanted but knew would _never_ happen - far too risky. 

But things were different now, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

“My dear,” came Aziraphale’s voice, pulling Crowley from his thoughts. “If you don’t mind, would you take your braid out? I’d very much like to touch your hair again.” 

“Oh, er- yeah.” Flushing slightly, but also feeling flattered, the demon tugged the ribbon free and shook the braid loose, letting the crimson locks fall around his shoulders. 

Automatically, he scooted closer, so his companion could more easily reach him, and the angel smiled appreciatively. “Thank you, dear.” Coaxing Crowley to nestle into the nook of his arm, head on his chest, Aziraphale stroked that silky hair and sighed softly. Ah… much better. The serpent was entirely unlike anything he’d dealt with Below, so soft and yielding, and it comforted him.  
  
Though he was unsettled by the closeness at first, the demon quickly felt his muscles relaxing from the body heat and the soothing sensations. This felt… right. This felt like home. “So, um… what was it that you wanted to tell me?”

“Mmh, yes, that.” The angel paused, thinking of how to best word his thoughts, “Crowley, I must apologize to you. I am sorry for making you wait. And I am sorry for pushing you away. I was terrified of what would happen, but while I was alone in the dark, I came to understand what I truly fear. I’m not afraid of heaven anymore, I’m not afraid of how I feel. I want you, in my life, by my side, always.”  
  
As Aziraphale made these new confessions, Crowley’s hand crept up to cover his face - the demon had gone deeply red and was nearly hyperventilating.  
  
Lifting a hand as if to offer support, Aziraphale paused before actually touching his friend’s back, asking, “Are you alright?”  
  
“Yeah, no, I don’t know. You can’t just - you really…?”

“Really. Truly.”

The demon was quiet for a moment, piecing his incohesive thoughts together. “I want you, too,” he finally murmured, his voice low but intense. “In every way. Very nearly since the day we met, I wanted you. At first, I wanted to know you in a mental sense, and the physical sense followed not long after. Especially in Rome, when we went into the baths together. Do you remember?” Lord Below, the angel had been so pink and plush in that steamy water that Crowley'd had to actively fight the urge to sink his teeth into that fair flesh. 

"Ah. Yes, I remember that well," Aziraphale chuckled, continuing to work his fingers through the demon's lovely hair. "You were so beautiful, just as you are now. I did sense your desires for me, but I was shy and self-conscious, and... well, it was very nice, but also very strange." _And I couldn't help myself. I know you tried to hide it. But you can't, and I can't shut it out. I wish you could still feel it, too. I know what was taken from you, I know. Is there nothing left of that? Can't you feel my overwhelming and impossible love for you?_

Crowley could absolutely feel that love; in one capacity or another, he’d felt it every time the angel was near. He’d simply made a habit of pushing that knowledge down, ignoring it, pretending it didn't exist, because that feeling was too confounding and unstable to deal with in the open air. "And I was afraid, too," he replied softly. "I'm still afraid. Every single day, I'm afraid, because everything we've built here, everything we have between us, could be snatched away in an instant. And the thought of an eternity without you beside me is..." He put a hand over his own chest. "...it makes me ache here, until I can't breathe."

Aziraphale placed his other hand over Crowley's. "I will always come back to you. I swear it, upon my very soul. I will always find you.” His thumb stroked gently over the demon’s knuckles. “In ‘The Symposium’, there is a story in which humans were originally created with two faces and four arms, and when they angered their gods, they were split in half and scattered, forced to search for their other halves. I always thought that was a beautiful idea, and sometimes I don't think it's as silly as it sounds."

The demon’s eyelids lowered in an expression of gleeful pleasure, feeling the heat radiating from that hand. "I hadn't heard that story before," he murmured. "That's so tragic, and yet... what a wonderful idea." Humans were so delightfully creative, really. "And... And I, you. I will always come back to you, always follow you, always find you. I swear it. Everything I have; everything I am. It's not much, but it's yours."

"Perhaps you shouldn't promise me so much. Be aware and gird yourself." Something shifted in Aziraphale's voice, and his fingers snagged into Crowley's hair, gripping at the nape of his neck and eliciting a tiny noise of surprise from the demon’s mouth. "Not all of what I want is innocent." He leaned down again to whisper, tugging lightly at the fistful of auburn waves. "Denial and desire have burned under my skin for centuries. You may be wicked, you may be formidable, but my dear, sweet lambkin, I would absolutely lay waste to you."

Crowley nodded again, wide-eyed. Oh. _Oh_. That tug, those words, and that tone made a shiver run down his spine and gooseflesh rise on his forearms, and it had nothing to do with fear. "You would. I know that." 

Perhaps his companions’s behaviour should have unsettled him, as it was far removed from the angel he knew. But, Crowley reminded himself, Aziraphale had spent four years in a strange hell; alone, afraid, and - in the quiet hours - thinking about doing these things to him. That would change anyone. And it wasn't as if the fantasies that had danced in his own mind for centuries were altogether pure, fantasies he drew upon when all he had for comfort was his imagination and his fist. The demon’s voice had lowered, shaking just a little. "Is this..." He tilted his head, pulling against that fist. "Is this one of the things you wanted?" He swallowed, eyes dilating very slightly. "You could... do it more, if you desire."

"Could I? Would you let me take care of you now? Do you offer yourself to the lion? Look at me, full of questions." The angel laughed, almost giddy, and his hand tugged again, pulling Crowley's chin upward, testing the bluntness of his teeth against his lip at the sight of that lovely throat. "I am insatiable; you've infected me with wonder. Answer me, then: would you let me slake myself on your happiness?" Aziraphale spoke in prose, summoning the spirit of a thousand better poets, as if he could weave together a fraction of their eloquence to express the maelstrom of his thoughts. He’d dreamed of all the things he’d say, all the beautiful and eloquent phrases he’d use to woo the demon. And though they came out in a clumsy jumble, the effect was not altogether lost.

Another soft sound escaped Crowley when his head was forced back again, exposing the milk-white flesh of the demon’s throat. Naked. Vulnerable. Heat was moving through his veins. He'd dreamed of this, of those blunt, strong fingers gripping, rending, rebuilding. "Everything I have," he gasped, repeating, like he was praying. Words were pouring out now. "Everything I am. My heart, my wings, my hair, my body, my happiness. Bruise my flesh, crush my bones, drink my blood like wine and _devour_ me, angel, until you're satisfied. I only... I only ask that you catch the pieces when I fall."

Pulling, gently tugging, the angel curled himself around his demon. "I wouldn't let you go." He closed that gap, finally. He'd kissed that mouth before, and it had always always been electric, always a pulse of fire and ice, as if the atoms of him spun slightly askew for a fraction of a second. But this kiss was different - this was _safe_. Before, they had merely stolen moments, but now? Now, he had robbed Heaven and Hell of their ability to judge; their power and their wrath would hold no sway here.

Deep in his chest, Aziraphale made the most satisfied sound to come from him since he first discovered ice cream, and an echo of _finally, finally, finally_ reverberated in Crowley’s mind when the angel held his head fast and sweetly kissed him. The demon was unable to keep his hands free of that cherubic face, that cloud of linen curls, for a second longer. A lean leg slid up, hooking over the angel's hip and trying desperately to draw their bodies as closely together as possible. They were _Alone_ and the powers-that-be and even God Herself could all fume and rage in vain. They didn't matter. Only this.

The celestial hand not in Crowley's hair slid down over the demon's slender body, feeling the ripple of muscle over his ribs, the jut of his hip, and then rounding the curve of his behind under those little black pants. He reverberated with the same joy, the same relief, and the same defiant want. He tilted his head, only to litter kisses like raindrops over Crowley's bared throat. "I've dreamed of sinking my teeth in, just here." And he indicated by lightly scraping them along the tendon connecting jaw to clavicle. How wondrous the human body, with all its fine features, all its pulleys and levers and nonsensical parts. How incredible its capacity to feel, to be utterly consumed by physical pleasure. 

To have this sensation wash over him, to have this affection lavished on his skin, was utterly foreign to the demon. Neither Heaven nor Hell was this soft, this welcoming, this comforting. A fair share of his temptations involved sins of the carnal type, but not a single hand had caressed and cradled his body with such devotion. His skin was quite hot now, nerve endings all awake and firing. Then he felt a breath on the curve of his neck. A bite, a bite, a bite was coming!  
  
"Please-!"

Aziraphale bit down.

And Crowley inhaled sharply when teeth sank in, deep and primal, and then a raw, wanton cry fled his mouth as a white-hot bolt of pleasure and pain tore down his spine, making him bow and bend, shuddering violently, toes curling inward, hands clinging to the angel and the nails digging in. Aziraphale sucked in a quick breath as Crowley carved crescents into his skin, to match the arcs of his teeth left on the demon's throat. Then he released his bite and sat back slightly to observe his companion.  
  
"Oh, that was something. What a beautiful sound." Music, a voice made to sing out in rapture. The angel was curious, as there was so much he wanted to know and so much he was learning that he'd never thought to ask. What would this taste like? How would this feel? What would happen if he did this, or this? He ran his palm up Crowley's back, and then turned his own nails toward the skin and raked them back down. "Do you like that, lovely one?"

Tremors were still passing through the demon's fingers and feet, and his mind distantly recognized that the sensation he'd just experienced was very similar to a climax. The bitten skin was swollen and aching; it excited him and made him pant softly against Aziraphale's collarbone. "Khh!" The sharp edges of those pristinely tended nails dug into his back and drew lines of fire down to his hips. It wasn't quite as intense as the bite, but the spreading sting and burn made him gasp and hiss through his teeth. "Yeeeessss...!" he groaned, unable to stop squirming and bending, involuntarily grinding against the angel. Was he trying to escape the scratching, or lean into it? He didn't know.

One unasked question was answered in bucking his hips against the angel's. Unlike when they'd last had a moment of true privacy, Aziraphale definitely had manifested something to grind against this time, and it was very, very interested in the demon's heated squirming.  
  
"I adore you, Crowley, I adore you. I want to bring you to such heights." Picking a new spot, the line of muscle above the collarbone, the angel bit again, impressing the shape of his perfect teeth into the skin.

It was nearly impossible to think to question in the demon’s current state, to think of anything beyond one-syllable phrases and wordless vocalizing. Another cry followed the second bite, not as loud, but more guttural, and Crowley again convulsed with pleasure in his angel’s arms.

Aziraphale released the skin again, and then licked over the pale marks he’d made. "I want to make you scream."

Crowley’s head was fuzzy with endorphins, and he felt like he'd just downed a fifth of strong ale. His shoulders slumped after that, a thin sheen of sweat visible, and his eyes hooded and a little misty. Multiple places ached and throbbed now, and it felt marvelous. "Thank you, angel," he moaned softly. "It feels so good, oh god, you're making it so good. Are you- Should I- is there anything I could...?"

"At this moment, not a thing. Just let me touch you, let me appreciate you. If you must do something, tell me what you want. Tell me... what you've thought about when I was on your mind, and you were in your hand." He kissed again where he had bitten, tasting salt on Crowley's skin. 

Being given something to do would keep his brain from completely frying, and Crowley was grateful for the task (even if the task was also something that made him shudder in anticipation). But just then, Aziraphale shifted his weight, took a firmer grip on the demon's thigh, and easily lifted his companion into his lap. Still bare from the waist up, he wrapped his arms around the other's slimmer body to pull Crowley flush against him.

With a startled little cry, Crowley found himself suddenly on top of the angel's body, straddling the sturdy hips, and being rather distinctly nudged in the lower belly. Oh, right. In the haze of... everything just then, the demon had forgotten to make his own Effort. A quick thought changed that, manifesting an ‘Adam’ model as well. His hair, a tousled crimson curtain, fell across his shoulders to brush Aziraphale's chest as he tried to collect his thoughts. "I... right," he croaked. "The pulling of the hair, that was a regular one. And the biting... having you put your mark on me would be very exciting, even if you didn't have..." He tapped one of his own pronounced canines. "...you know.

"I could put marks on you in other ways," the angel suggested, tangling his fingers in that sunset mane again. "Is that all? I have had ... so many impure thoughts recently." Aziraphale's eyelids fluttered, and he palmed his companion's taut little ass. "Very unbecoming, really. I've been very, very improper. But I am still an angel. Isn't that funny? It occurred to me that... well, angels can't sin. Only humans can. So I can do this-" He gave Crowley's behind a brazen squeeze. "-all I like. Or all _you_ like."

There were many, many more thoughts, and Crowley was struggling to remember them because the angel kept grabbing him like that. "I would like that, the whole marking business." He grinned then, giving his hips a naughty little shimmy. "And that. Plenty of that." Ah, he recalled one thought. "...I thought about you doing that in public, you know. Sometimes discreetly, like when we'd be sitting together, and sometimes... sometimes when we were walking down a crowded street, with your hand gripping my arse like you owned it, and everyone could see."

Aziraphale moaned at the thought. "That is _wicked_. You are a delight to mine every sense, dear." He glanced downward, though he couldn't see between their tight-pressed bodies. "And you've made a dainty for me, if I'm not mistaken. Is it? For me, I mean... may I?"

The angel's response greatly pleased him, making him beam and also making another part of him stir. _Yeah, I thought you'd like that one, you hedonist._ "Ah-yes, I did. I, er-" He blushed again. "-I felt yours rubbing on me and thought it'd feel nice if we matched. Should I sit up?"

"Just shift back a little." Aziraphale was enjoying the amount of contact they were sharing and wanted to lose as little of it as possible. He only needed a couple of inches to slip his hand between them. "I got used to having it. After the first few times, I stopped bothering to get rid of it again. I thought about the other option, but I was dirty and had no power, and it seemed an ill idea." He lightly traced his fingers over Crowley's pants, feeling out what the thin fabric concealed. "I think I like this one more. The other can get too intense. There are so many nerves, and - have you tried it?"

Having an opening like that exposed to those unsanitary conditions would be terribly inconvenient, Crowley supposed. His fingers and toes curled a bit when the angel's hand found his Effort and caressed it through his shorts, those deft fingers exploring him for the first time in several centuries, and with far more insistence. "Ghh... erm... yes, I've tried both, and one sort of in-between _nnh_... a-and...yes, I've tried that version before. They, um, they both have their appeal."

Aziraphale tugged loose the tie at Crowley's waistband and pulled the front of the garment open, petting over the warm shaft that sprang free. "Yes, they do. Though I imagine anything would be appealing on you." But he enjoyed the eagerness, the vulnerability, of this option. The angel pressed his palm flat against Crowley's cock, his other hand still firm against that pert rear, squeezing again as he leant in to give his partner another assertive kiss.

By this point, the demon was the owner of a very stiff, very eager erection that was delighted to be cupped in Aziraphale's warm palm. Automatically, he began to rut into it, groaning softly against the angel's mouth, and pleasure washed softly over his lower body, like ripples on a lake. His eyes were completely golden now, full golden marbles with dark slits. Tilting his head, he caught his partner's lower lip in his teeth and sucked lightly for a second or two before letting go.

Breath caught, Aziraphale pressed the heel of his hand more firmly against Crowley's grinding pelvis, and the hot, hard length trapped between. He shivered, sliding his other hand back up to dig back into the hair at the nape of his demon's neck. That thought sank into his brain like melting butter: _my demon_. He bucked into Crowley's hip and moaned, all but wept, "Wonderful, dearheart, my raven, you are a wonder." His composure crumbled into soft, sweet rambling. Where would this take them? He felt himself cresting a hill, his own member straining in his linen pants, staining the fabric in its want, but he had done little with it other than touch himself in the dark.

Normally, Crowley would try to stall himself, to hold back, to prolong their time together, if only for a moment longer. No such restraint was present this morning. Release was building quickly, and the demon whimpered softly when Aziraphale pulled his hair again. He felt balanced. He felt protected. He felt... treasured, for that strong celestial grip proclaimed to all the world: _This is mine_ . Shifting his knee forward so he could rub his thigh more directly on that hardness next to his, he started to tremble with mounting pleasure - but couldn't quite reach that nearing peak. It was going to be intense, and he was suddenly terribly afraid - not just of the orgasm, but of everything that was happening. It was so fast, and so strange, and parts of him were screaming at him that it wasn’t right, it wasn’t real. "Falling," he whimpered helplessly, looking hopelessly tormented and aroused. "Catch me, angel, _please_ , I'm going to _fall-_!"

"You won't. My dearest, you won't." Aziraphale adjusted position, rolled his hips, and managed to free his own eager prick, gathering both his and Crowley's in his broad hand. Pressing them together, heat against heat, the angel's fist became miraculously slick and tight, and he stroked them both slow and firm. The scent of olives and arousal rose between them, heady and spicy, and the oil made a wet, slippery sound as he worked them to the summit. "I have you, and you are free. Fly."

 _Oh?_ Aziraphale's palm was suddenly very slick with… olive oil? How was that possible? Their power was- _OH._ The serpent's entire thought process ground to a halt when the extra friction was added, and his teeth gritted as the trembling grew more violent. Oh god, oh god, oh _god_ , that was heavenly. Alone. Safe. Free. The fist in his hair claimed him, contained him. This angel would never let him go. He was gasping, gasping louder, and then his back arched and he wailed; he sang; he _shrieked_ as euphoria crashed over him like a tidal wave and thick seed dirtied Aziraphale's hand. Dark nails latched onto the angel's chest like anchors, and behind him, translucent jet-black wings shot out and spread to their full length, before dissolving back into their own plane, never quite fully manifesting.

When Crowley returned to himself, Aziraphale was flushed and panting, with a hazy, happy smile. "I have you," the angel repeated, releasing them both from his sticky-oily hand and waving the mess away. _Thank You for gifting me the power to do that_. Gradually, his breathing slowed, and he sank back against the headboard, warm and sated and happier than he'd been since... well, Eden. His heart was singing, thundering and aching with how happy he was, how complete.  
  
"Crowley?"

Heartbeat thundered in the demon’s ears, whiteness suffused his fingertips, and soft noises were still on his tongue. When his eyes rolled back into their proper position, he slumped forward onto his hands and then crumbled downward so his face was nestled in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. _Holy fucking hell._ "Crowley's not a'home right now," he sang faintly, slurring a bit, kissing that neck once, twice, thrice. "Pleashe come back lateeer..."

"Mmn. That really was a bang, wasn't it? Broke your arrow clear into splinters." The angel stroked Crowley's hair soothingly, tugging him to sit sideways across his thighs, cradling him with reverent tenderness. He'd hold his companion for as long as necessary, even if Crowley fell asleep right where he was.

The only thing in Crowley’s head was a hot, white buzzing. He allowed himself to be nudged into the new position, happily snuggling up to the hot water bottle that was Aziraphale's body. "You're amazing," he sighed blissfully. Then he turned his head up, searching for those blue eyes. "... you caught me." His own eyes, back to normal, were wide and childlike, and one lone tear had trickled down across the bridge of his nose. "You really caught me."

"I think falling once was enough." Aziraphale smiled, brushing back Crowley's hair, wiping away that tear with his knuckle. "I... don't want to say something that will upset you, but... well, I think if you don't already know, I can't imagine saying it would convince you. I've told you that I love all beings, all of Her creations. You know this." It had been a frequent point, over the years. Angels were supposed to love. Sadly, not all of them were generous about it. He did not elaborate the point, but the look in his eyes was so deeply heartfelt that it would have taken an act of willful obstinance to not hear him.

The endorphin high was wearing off now, and Crowley was able to hear, to really listen, to what was being said. It was something important, he sensed. "Yeah," he nodded. "Angels were made to love all things, all the time." He remembered that distantly; after all, he'd been an angel, once. His heart was thudding in his chest. "You love your books and your music. You love the sun and rain, the birds and beasts, and all of mankind." His throat was closing. He had to say it while it was safe, while they were Alone. "And here am I, a broken, twisted demon who was never ever meant to love, and yet... and yet I love you, angel, more than anything." No, he shouldn’t reveal any more- but maybe just a little. "More than humanity. More than God."

And that, the last of all of those, was why Crowley had Fallen and Aziraphale had not.

So Aziraphale chose his words cautiously. "I’ve loved you from the start, in the way that an angel loves all of Her Creations. But in time, I’ve come to know that, of all those Creations, I love you most." She still took precedence in his soul. That was something he could not change; he didn’t have enough free will to deny Her that place. And deep down, a flame of doubt ignited in him. If he had the ability to choose between his Maker and his beloved... would he be able to? Would he still love Her more? Would he Fall? ... Would he do so willingly?

They were different creatures - they thought differently; they loved differently. And yet, Crowley listened to these words and knew them to be wholly, completely true. "That's more than I deserve," he said, voice wavering. "More than I had ever hoped for." He hid his face in Aziraphale's neck again, hand over his face, fearful of the expression he was making and the water that threatened to overflow from his eyes. "Oh lord, angel, if I'm dreaming, then I never want to wake up."

"I've wondered if I've been dreaming ever since you brought me home,” the angel admitted softly. And if I am-” His tone grew determined here. “-then I am damned well going to wake up. And I’m going to find you and love you, just like this.” He traced one of Crowley's ears, tucking a lock of red behind it, resting his nose in those waves and breathing in the demon’s scent.. “And I'm going to tell you how much you deserve it, and how much you did _ not  _ deserve what was done to you to make you feel so unworthy. Because you  _ are  _ worthy, my precious starling."

Water did fall from Crowley’s eyes at that, sliding across his nose to dampen the pillowcase, as the joy and validation he felt in that moment was too great to contain inside his body. There were no words; they’d fled his mind. All he could do was cling to his angel, his bulwark, and weep until the well had run dry. Gradually, though, the swell of emotions faded, and an even kilter was established once more. He was able to rest and doze, then, with his face in Aziraphale's curls.

It was his beloved’s stomach that eventually interrupted the peace, and Crowley chuckled without looking up. The angel glanced over at the shuttered window, the slanted lines of dust and sun indicating how late in the day it had gotten. "Goodness, the day really slipped by. I'm absolutely famished.” If it really had only been a few months since he’d been gone in this world... “Perhaps we could go to the Gilded Bull for supper?" Properly ‘ _ El Toro Dorado _ ,' it was a pleasant, if slightly crumbling old inn and alehouse with cheap beer, solid food, and a decent fiddle-player as fixtures. His stomach was still delicate, but he could use some time among people, among cheer and song.

"Whatever you like, angel. Ah, they have that nice home brew with the green apples, don't they?" Crowley was reluctant to leave that warm embrace, that circle of security, and yet he knew he must. He nipped the angel's chest playfully and then rolled into a sitting position, scooting off the bed to find his clothes.

When they left the house, there was an abrupt resumption of sound: people talking, birds singing, the wind rustling amongst leaves, the sound of oxcarts clattering along the stone roads, and all the other noise of a living city. They had left the bubble of sanctuary the angel had somehow created in the villa. That bubble would remain, so long as Aziraphale kept it up, and although they had to maintain a front of genteel amiability at the pub, they could talk and laugh and drink as they always had. Only now, they had a new,  _ better _ secret to keep.    
  
Aziraphale ate a small portion of bread and lamb, drank somewhat more than he should have, and tried to get Crowley to try some of everything, like he usually did. Crowley was so elated that he indulged his friend's every whim that night, opening his mouth to sample the brown bread and mutton (and had to admit that the taste was actually quite agreeable). The apple ale was the item he partook of in spades, warming him against the night's chill and loosing his tongue just enough to participate in several drunken pub songs.    
  
And when the bar staff dropped not-so-subtle hints that the night was over, the angel and demon walked back to the villa, arm in arm. Laughing and weaving, they made their way back into bed to enjoy each other again and again, finding clever things to do with hands and mouths. When it was all said and done, the demon received several more bruising bites, and the angel would wake later to find himself with fresh scratches all across his back. Playful, passionate, and just drunk enough to be carefree, they managed to bring each other to climax twice more before they both sank into restful sleep.


	6. Love Is Blindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With only a short time left before they have to part ways, a demon and an angel turn the humble galleon they've boarded into a Love Boat (as well as a voyage of sexual discovery).
> 
> tl;dr This chapter is 20% plot and 80% fucking on a ship. Enjoy. :>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates on Sundays!
> 
> Special thanks to our beta reader, joy_shines! <3

The two weeks that followed were not unlike a honeymoon for the besotted duo: they supped together; they bathed together; they spent the hours in-between together (both in and out of bed). It didn’t take them long to progress beyond kissing and heavy petting, as they were eager to devour every inch of the meal they’d denied themselves for so long. And though Crowley wasn’t as poetically gifted as Aziraphale, it didn’t take the angel long to realize that a serpent’s tongue had  _ other  _ impressive talents. While Aziraphale preferred to manifest a penis, Crowley confidently switched between that and the ‘Eve model’, and he quickly learned that his partner could completely unravel him with just a couple of fingers - every time they finished with that particular indulgence, the sheets wound up soaked, which the angel remedied with a click of his fingers.    
  
The fact that Aziraphale could still perform minor miracles within the secret space, as well as the persistence of that strange symbol on the angel’s wrist, were simply not addressed. They were finally free to be open and honest, to drown in each other’s passion, and neither of them was willing to tarnish that. Frequently, Crowley found himself fervently wishing that this epicurean adventure with Aziraphale would never end, so drunk was he with love.    
  
And then, early one mild morning, Aziraphale found a letter at his door, and his blissful mood plummeted straight into the mud. "... Bother."   
  
Recently awoken and clad in nothing but a borrowed bathrobe, Crowley was in the kitchen making their morning tea when he heard the angel’s grumbling from the doorway. "Oh oh, that doesn’t sound good. Bad news from upstairs?"

"It's a missive from Hiskiel." Aziraphale held the faintly luminescent sheet of heavenly parchment between his fingertips, frowning like it had personally offended him. Hiskiel was one of Gabriel's head assistants, charged with ensuring that the Archangel's authority was given its due respect. As it turned out, Aziraphale had not only neglected to report back on his mission in the New World, but had also been noted returning to Spain quite suddenly without permission and without his charge. It hadn’t taken the higher-ups long to come to logical - if mostly incorrect - conclusions. "They want me to go back to England to apologize to the Abbot for losing Edmund.” His gaze flickered over the letter. “And then they want me to go to Russia. I’m to attend the court of Empress Catherine, to ensure an important treaty-signing ceremony is completed without any hitches."

A familiar and unwanted weight settled on the demon’s shoulders, making him slump just a little. Right. Their reports. Their jobs and responsibilities. Crowley himself was supposed to return to England for a few minor temptations, after which he was expected to submit a formal report on the Guatemala mission. He  _ certainly  _ wasn't supposed to lollygag in a Spanish villa and vigorously fraternize with the enemy. Most importantly, that letter reminded him that Aziraphale was still at Heaven's beck and call. Swallowing, he set the teapot down and crossed over to anxiously hover nearby, reading the letter over the angel's left shoulder. "How much time before you have to go?"  _ Please don't leave. _

"Oh, I probably shouldn't put it off more than a day or two. I think they're plenty peeved with me already,” Aziraphale sighed. “But oh, maybe there won't be a ship in the port tomorrow, or the next day." That was wishful thinking, because  _ of course _ there would be a ship - he'd been given a strict allowance for specific miracles, and chartering transportation was expected. He huffed, brow furrowing as he slid an arm around Crowley’s waist. "Well, at least it's not a very long assignment. I'm sure I'll be back by Spring." The idea of spending the winter in Catherine's icy empire, far from his demon and his creature comforts, wasn't terribly appealing - although he would appreciate the architecture, the chance to sample new food and drink - and he’d heard interesting rumours about the Empress herself.

Well. That wasn't so bad, really. They'd spent much longer spans of time apart before: decades, even centuries. What was half a year? Nothing. Yet ‘nothing’ was not what Crowley felt when that warm, secure arm drew him closer. ‘Nothing’ was not what had occurred here. "You know,” he said in a low, somewhat sly tone. “I suppose I should get back to England, too. Have my own reports to give and such. Be a fine coincidence if we happened to board the same ship."

"A fine coincidence, indeed,” Aziraphale replied, a twinkle in his eye. “After all, it's not like we’ve never traveled together before. Surely no one could complain.”

And just like that, Crowley felt himself relax, and the air around them grew lighter. "Right, then. It’s settled. We’ll get everything ready and leave tomorrow morning.” A lovely ship would no doubt be waiting for them. “Frankly,” he added, after a thoughtful pause, “Since we went to the New World as an escort team, it’d be quite silly if we didn't stick together all the way to the abbey, don’t you think?" 

The angel laughed outright at that. Such a crafty being, his serpent. “Absolutely, my dear.” He gave Crowley’s waist an affectionate squeeze. "I'm thankful that you'll be with me, either way. Maybe we can find ways to make the journey more pleasant, hm?" His face lit up with a familiar bastard smile, possibly for the first time since they'd returned from the jungle.

Crowley’s eyes widened slightly, that smile nearly making him swoon; thankfully, Aziraphale’s strong arm held him firmly upright. Such a naughty being, his angel. “M’sure we could,” he murmured, nuzzling those wooly curls and sliding an arm around those broad shoulders. 

“Plenty of time for it.” Aziraphale disdainfully dropped the letter, turning it into a fine sparkle of dust before it hit the floor, before refocusing his attention on his partner. "You like the thing I do with my knuckles, don't you? I'm sure I could do it for you again, and many others like it.” Crowley was right: he  _ was _ a hedonist.

A tiny noise came from the serpent as blood seeped into his face. The conversation had taken a lewd left turn, and his brain was scrambling to catch up. “I-... yeah, I do,” he finally squeezed out. “Been learning new tricks, have you?”

“Merely drawing upon lessons learned in the course of my very long life. Shall I demonstrate?” The angel didn’t wait for an answer and simply hoisted his demonic partner off the ground, parking his bottom on the dining table. 

“Wah!” Crowley was deep red now, both from being effortlessly handled and from being sprawled indecently on the table, robe falling open. “W-Wait, angel, what about-” Then that cherubic face vanished between his legs, and all protests fled his mind.

Packing could wait.

***

After tea and breakfast were had (and Crowley had regained feeling in his legs), the pair dressed and then went about preparing for the trip. Crowley went out to the town square to make travel arrangements as far as the nearest port, while Aziraphale busied himself with household minutia: gathering the half-eaten food items and tallow candles that might attract vermin, tucking away the blankets and rugs to protect them from moths, and ensuring that a lump payment was left with the landlord.

Stripping the bed linens turned into a brief, but intense, scuffle when Aziraphale chucked a pillow at the demon, ending in howling laughter from both sides.  _ I love him so much. I am so happy, even though I'll miss him while we're apart. But we can have this now. I can keep us safe.  _ The angel’s expression was achingly fond, soft crinkles about the eyes, a blush across his rounded cheeks. Yes, the work would’ve gone much faster if they hadn’t kept distracting each other, but oh, it certainly wouldn't have been as fun.

While Aziraphale carried off a large box of leftover goods to donate to the neighbors next door, Crowley set about washing and drying the few dishes they’d used. No miracles this time - there was something pleasantly domestic about doing the dishes by hand in this cozy kitchen.

When he returned, a small bundle in hand, Aziraphale paused to watch Crowley work. There was something so achingly lovely about seeing him perform such a mundane, human task. Crowley was here, in his kitchen, in his life. It was what the angel had always wanted. Smiling, he planted a grateful kiss on the demon’s shoulder before climbing the stairs, using a miracle to banish dirt and dust from the upper floors. 

By the time dusk approached, the apartment was fit and ready, and the pair determined that a snack break was in order. The little bundle turned out to be a loaf of moist and savory brown bread from the neighbors: a gift in return from the sundries the angel had given them. They each helped themselves to a slice, and Aziraphale gave a satisfied nod.

“That took considerably less time than I’d anticipated.”

“Yeah, even with someone distracting me all the time.” Aziraphale grinned, and Crowley wrinkled his nose in response. “Hm. Anything else that needs doing before we go?”

“No, not really.” The angel daintily wiped crumbs from his lip. Only one candle stub and slip of soap were left, which would be discarded in the morning. (Aziraphale had packed a full bar in with his clothes, along with the other things he liked to use in his bath: a clay phial of fragrant oil for his hair, a pumice for his feet, a selection of scented creams for his perfectly soft hands. There would be no lack on their voyage). “You’ve been a wonderful help, darling. Can I do anything to thank you?”

The compliment, and the offer of reward, made Crowley feel that glow in his chest again as he finished the last of his bread. "Well," he said, after thinking a moment. "I'm going to have a soak, while we still have a tub around. After that, would you..." He shyly tucked a red tendril behind his ear. "...would you brush my hair, and braid it?"

"It would be my pleasure. Would you let me wash it, as well?" 

"You want to- er- yeah, all right." He'd been tempted to ask for a wash; apparently the angel was capable of reading his mind. 

After wrapping the rest of the bread up and adding it to his packed bags, they both headed into the bathroom. Aziraphale used a little of his own personal power to summon hot water from the cistern, as well as a towel and a glass bottle of cedar-scented lotion. Crowley eagerly undressed and sank into the waiting water, humming low in his throat and laying his head back on the rim. "Thanks for this, angel. Just what I needed."

“Of course, dear boy. You've been so good to me, I... honestly, I don't know what I ever did to deserve you.” Pulling a stool over to sit at the edge of the tub, Aziraphale picked up the remaining scrap of soap and dipped it in the hot water, rubbing a lather between his hands. “May I ask something that may be overly personal?”

Slowly, Crowley breathed in the scent of soap and angel, letting the kind words drift over him. At the question, he tipped his head to the side; at this angle, he couldn't quite see Aziraphale but wanted to show he was listening. "Hm?"

“Are there other demons like you?” As he spoke, he began to work the lather into Crowley's hair, gently scratching at the scalp. “That is to say, I was always taught that demons can't love or be kind, that all the good was burnt out when they Fell. Obviously, that's not true for you, but I’ve- well, I can’t say I’ve met many demons besides you. But the ones I did meet were always more angry than evil, as if they contained a deep sorrow.” He sounded troubled here. “And I... I want to know how deep the lies go."

That was an excellent question, and one that Crowley himself had been mulling over for centuries. The demons he interacted with regularly were all dirty, crass creatures with short tempers and no creativity, and yet... "Sadly, most of them aren’t like me at all," he admitted after a moment. “Yet, I feel like many of them  _ could  _ be if they..." He gestured vaguely with his hand. "... had the chance, you know? If they could get away from their asinine jobs and foul conditions and experience  _ pleasant  _ things for once, instead of being stuck below like sewer rats. It gets to your head, being down there for so long."

A slight chill went down the angel’s spine at that. He’d only been in the bat-god’s underworld for four years, and that nameless dark forest had nearly driven him mad. What must it be like for the other demons, to be trapped in a similar place for centuries, with no hope of escape? “That’s so terribly unfair,” he murmured regretfully, moving his fingers in soothing circles over Crowley’s head. 

“Aye, it is.”

"It would almost be kinder if feeling love and empathy wasn’t an option at all."

"Easier, at least," Crowley sighed. "It would be much easier for all of us if we just  _ were  _ a certain way, and that was that. Alas, it’s not that simple." He was quiet for a moment, enjoying the massage, and then halfway opened his eyes again. "As far as demonic love? That, I can't even figure out myself. I’ve seen bonds form, between some. Though they'd deny it if asked, I’m sure. No real consistency, though."

"Surely, you’re proof enough that it can be done?" Leaning down, kissing Crowley's forehead, the angel beamed with love and acceptance. He’d doubted this fallen angel in the past and taken so long to struggle through the uncertainty, the questions he was never equipped to ask - Crowley's gift of doubt at work. Eventually, he’d accepted new truths over old: A demon could be kind, and empathic, and loving. A demon, it seemed, was just an angel who had been betrayed.

"I might just be a freak of nature, but I'm grateful for it, overall," Crowley replied with a small smile, basking in the affection. In his heart of hearts, he wanted to believe that he wasn't an anomaly, that more of his kind were capable of experiencing this feeling. It wasn't their fault that their Mother was a capricious tyrant. Wishing to change the subject, he grasped one of the angel's hands and kissed the palm. "I love your hands, angel," he murmured.

Aziraphale took the hint. "I love touching you,” he replied warmly. “It's rather a shame we've already stripped the bed. You make me want to do wonderful things with them." He leaned in further, whispering in the serpent’s ear. "But I have you at my mercy right here, don't I?" His free hand dipped further into the water, enough to wet the rolled-up sleeve of his blouse. "I’m so grateful for everything you are, my starling. Let me show you." With one arm around Crowley's shoulder, the other searched down the length of the demon's body, tickling his stomach and inner thighs in its wandering. 

"A shame, indeed," Crowley murmured, shivering very slightly when those fingers moved down his body. Tilting his head back, he shifted to face the angel more, resting his mouth on the shell of Aziraphale's ear. "Show me," he crooned, gently biting the lobe.

The angel smiled and turned to nip at Crowley's cheek, jaw, throat, wherever he was offered. His teeth were not sharp, but he still loved catching pinches of soft skin between them, to tease and worry, to leave ephemeral marks of his devotion. "I love you," he whispered, voice cracking over the ardent fire of being able to say it. "I love every part of you: your hands, your mouth, your hair, the down on your belly, the soft places behind your ears. I love your sharp teeth, and your jeweled eyes, and your daring tongue. I love your mind, and your heart, and the very soul of you." Fingertips skirted over the base of that waiting erection. "And I love this pretty bauble in the centre of you, how wonderfully it leaps and yearns." He did love playing with it, even more than he liked playing with his own.

The demon's ‘bauble’ had been crafted with as much care and beauty as one could attribute to such an awkward piece of human anatomy: rosy around the foreskin, curving slightly upward, and roughly six-and-a-half inches in length when erect. And it was certainly erect now, as the angel's honeyed voice and roving hands left it no choice. Even as he squirmed and sighed in the water, Crowley was glad that even this peculiar part of him was found worthy. "Angel," he groaned softly against that smooth neck, one hand gripping Aziraphale's wet cuff. "I'm gonna go off in no time flat, if you keep talking like that."

"Is there a reason for you to hold back? That  _ is  _ rather the idea, after all,” the angel purred, flicking his wrist in the way that he knew Crowley liked. “I'll give you another and another, every day I have with you, until you are so sated, you shan't notice when I'm away." Then he bit firmly at the side of Crowley's throat again, pressing fresh crescents into the skin

“Well, if you put it that way…” The serpent gasped softly when he was bitten, and a tremor passed through his body.  _ Oh Hell, that's-! _ It was a mere ten seconds later when Crowley surrendered with a keening moan, rutting into Aziraphale's fist and splashing some water on the floor. When it passed, the demon slumped back against the tub, panting and flushed and grasping at the angel's arms to draw him closer and bite weakly under his jaw (which had become a sort of post-climax ritual for him). Feeling quite relaxed now, Crowley allowed himself to be helped from the bathtub, slathered in lotion, and wrapped in a towel, at which point Aziraphale sat him on his lap and summoned a brush to comb out his hair and weave it into a single, thick braid. Sitting there, being cared for like a precious possession, well.. it was new, but the demon couldn't say he hated it. When that was done, Crowley thanked his angel, then decided he needed to rest, and Aziraphale agreeably laid with him on the bare bed until he slept.

***

Morning brought with it bright sunlight, chirping songbirds, and a round of hasty activity as Crowley frantically gathered his belongings and packed his trunk, while also trying not to bump into walls and corners, due to not being fully awake. Aziraphale, having prepared his bags during the night while his counterpart slept, did his best to manage the chaos without interfering (mostly picking up dropped items and reassuring Crowley that they would arrive in good time). Eventually, though, the villa was locked down, and both beings and their luggage were loaded into a carriage and on their way to the nearest port city.

The carriage arrived in Cádiz two days later, delivering the voyagers and their meager bags to the ancient port. As if waiting especially for them, their next conveyance sat gleaming and painting-perfect at the dock as Aziraphale exited the cab. With the recent peace treaty signed between England and Spain, there were now ships going directly between the two countries, and this one, christened  _ Tres Gallinas _ , was a small merchant galleon. Small, that is, compared to other galleons; she was still enormous, over thirty metres long, outfitted with massive guns along each flank and towering masts. Despite the amount of cargo she held,  _ Gallinas _ was still quick and mobile as the ship type went, and her hired berths were generous and comfortable compared to other galleons, meaning there was enough room to stand up and move around in the tiny cabins.

Aziraphale's berth was situated belowdecks, near the gravitational centre of the ship, which was desirable as one felt the yawing of the sea far less than toward the hull. After greeting the first mate and yeoman, then shaking the captain's hand, Aziraphale settled into his quarters, changed into something more fitting for the journey - leather vest and boots in a golden brown, form-fitting grey breeches, a laced-up white blouse with ruffles at the throat, and a long wool cape in a winter-sky blue, with silver patterns stitched along the edges. From the deck railing, he watched the land recede, palm trees fading into a green haze in the distance, and then disappearing below the horizon. They would keep this distance from land all the way up the coast. If the wind held, they'd be in Plymouth in seven to ten days.

Crowley didn't particularly enjoy sailing, but he endured it all the same as a regular means of travel. If anything, there was a captive audience for any minor temptations he decided to do. His own cabin was closer to the foremast and conveniently situated three doors down from Aziraphale's. It was also one of the largest available; the serpent, being a lanky fellow, needed all the room possible to stretch himself out. The bed was passable, though a quick snap of the fingers made it a plush feather bed with black silk sheets, cozy pillows, and a thick red and black comforter. Much better. Then he, too, proceeded to change from his fashionable Spanish garb into a more subtle colonial sort of attire: a puffy-sleeved, black silk peasant shirt that showed the barest sliver of neck and collarbone, high-waisted wine-red breeches with loose-fitting legs, dark stockings, black low-heel shoes with a silver snake-head clasp, and a wool cape similar in style to Aziraphale's, but in black, red, and silver. He had also procured black deerskin gloves lined with rabbit fur, to ward off the cold ocean air, which he slid on eagerly. With his hair beautifully wavy from the braids and moving in the breeze, he felt like quite a handsome creature indeed.

The voyage, he learned upon listening to the chatter of sailors, would last between seven and ten days… which was much less time than he'd anticipated. The demon felt a knot of disquiet form in his stomach, even as the call for supper sounded, and he pulled the collar of his cape a little closer and shuffled along with the other passengers to the galley. However, as he didn’t see Aziraphale anywhere, he simply helped himself to some of the beer provided (it wasn't that great in terms of taste, but it warmed his belly) and then left. 

Aziraphale was entirely uninterested in partaking of the evening meal. As he saw it, the ship's rations barely counted as food, and he might as well leave what was available to people who actually required nutrition. Instead, he had taken a glass of brandy-water and watched the young men working the rigging for a while, before returning belowdecks. However he did not retire to his own quarters, choosing instead to visit Crowley’s. When he knocked at the door and heard no answer, he displayed an uncharacteristic boldness and simply let himself in to wait.

It was far too cold to linger on the upper decks after dark, so Crowley burrowed into his cape and hurried back to his cabin. He paused outside the door, sensing a presence inside... was the angel already in there?  _ Cheeky bastard. _ Shivering from a particularly frosty breeze, the serpent hustled inside, then shut and locked the door - thankfully, the cabin was well-insulated. "I see somebody went ahead and let himself right in," he chuckled, raising a hand to light the few candles nearby.

As suspected, the angel was lounging on Crowley's soft bed, his cape tossed over a nearby chair, ankles demurely crossed. "Is that really such a shock? After you paraded past me in  _ that? _ " 

"It's not my fault I look so blessed fit in it," the serpent replied, with a melodramatic flip of his cape. 

Aziraphale smirked. "And where exactly have you been, my fit raven?" 

"Dinner bell. Went down to the galley." The demon slipped his cape and gloves off and tossed them over the same nearby chair, revealing the entirety of his new outfit.

“Waste of time, really. That food is foul.” The angel wrinkled his nose, and then grinned and gestured to the partially-empty bottle of brandy at his side. "I brought a gift."

“It really was. I settled for a pint and left. That gift of yours looks much better, assuming you left me any." The inelegant scoff Crowley got in response was a match for the demon's best, and he cackled.

"Of course I did! What do you take me for?" Aziraphale actually pouted.

“Just a sneaky lush,” Crowley teased. 

“I beg your pardon, I am not sneaky,” the angel sniffed. "And I'd have a much harder time getting you drink if I were to drunk the whole thing. I assure you, I am quite sober.” He offered Crowley the bottle, and his arm wobbled slightly. “Well… mostly sober.”

“Give me that before you drop it.” Taking the bottle, Crowley took a long swig from it and then settled down beside his companion. The stuff was watered down, as a sailor's drink tended to be, but it  _ was _ brandy. “Mm, not bad.”

Aziraphale wiggled, pleased, and then nudged the demon’s shoulder with his own. "Come, tell me a story, my lambkin. I do enjoy your tales."

Crowley leaned back on his free hand, looking thoughtfully at the ceiling. "Let's see, let's see, a story for a dove. A story for a dove who likes to sneak into other nests. 

“Oh hush, you knew I’d be here sooner or later.”

The serpent merely rolled his eyes and took another swig, and then brightened. “Ah! Did I ever tell you that I was the one who started that rumor about Saint Patrick using 'faith' to drive snakes from Ireland?"

"Did you, now?" Shifting to make space, Aziraphale rested on his elbow, curled around the demon, close enough to share body heat.

"Myep, I did." 

"I heard he used a stick."

Crowley laughed. "Nah, nothing like that. No magic, no faith, no sticks, and snakes were never around. The whole thing is a load of bollocks. The man was just a traveling preacher, but now half the Irish Catholics pray to him and think shamrocks are lucky." Taking a third drink, he flopped onto his back and snickered. "That was a fun one."

Aziraphale giggled. "I know there were asps in England, but no snakes were ever in Ireland.” He playfully bumped his foot against Crowley’s leg. “Some nerve you have, calling  _ me  _ a sneak when you’re telling stories like that.” 

“If it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then…” That earned him a shin kick. “Ow.”

“I am  _ not  _ a sneak,” the angel indignantly insisted. “I'm  _ discreet _ . There’s a difference. You should know. For example, I could make this room a very discreet place." He licked his teeth, still tasting the sweet drink on his breath. "I think I could do it anywhere I like." The glint in his gaze gave a double meaning to what 'it' was.

The demon arched an eyebrow at his companion, one lip corner curling. "Anywhere you like, eh?"

With a nod, Aziraphale summoned that power, the flare of sizzling electricity that sparked in his fingertips and shot up his arm, before gently touching one of the support beams in the wall. Once more, there was a soft, airy  _ whoomf _ sound, like someone snapping out a bedsheet, and the air in the cabin rushed outward, and then back, growing silent and still. What Aziraphale had done was a form of magic, but it hummed with a low, earthy frequency that was completely unlike angelic miracles.

Crowley blinked in surprise, having only just now seen this power in action. It really was like a bubble had formed, and nothing was in it except them. That way-back place in his head was buzzing softly, saying that this energy felt  _ off  _ and he should ask exactly how Aziraphale could do it, but he couldn't listen to it right now. He was too overjoyed by the notion of safety, of being thoroughly shielded from Heaven and Hell, and he couldn't stop himself from smiling widely. "Have I told you you're amazing yet, angel?"

"Not in words, dearheart, but I think I'm learning to hear you,” Aziraphale replied with a smile, preening slightly. "I'm rather proud of myself. If angels could sin, I'd check that one right off." The irony there being that, supposedly, angels were incapable of sinning because they lacked free will, and yet many angels displayed pride, envy, and lust regularly. Aziraphale himself had merely embraced those cardinal sins more thoroughly because he'd had the opportunity to do so. "I just had this idea, and it worked a treat. Aren't I clever?" He chuckled at himself. "Almost as clever as you, my fox."

"Very clever," the demon replied with a smile, laying back on his elbow and propping his head up in his hand, copper-sheen waves falling to the side. "I might have already told you this," he added, the smile growing into a grin. "But you're really  _ very  _ attractive when you’re flaunting your 'bastard' side, especially when you know you're getting away with something. You look so smug and proud right now that I could just eat you."

The angel lit up with an even brighter smile. "Could you, now?” His eyes narrowed slightly and he licked his lips, ramping up the effect even more than when he'd once been eating mutton by hand and gleefully watching Crowley fidget as he licked the savory juices from his fingers. Aziraphale loved to tease, and he was good at it, improving with every little temptation job that passed his way. “Oh, how awful, to be at your devilish mercy. Whatever would they say if they found out?" 

"Indeed, what  _ would _ they say...?" Lifting up slightly, Crowley planted a kiss on that teasing mouth, nipping at the wet bottom lip, and quickly following with a second. "The most awful thing in the world, truly, to be swallowed up by a serpent," he continued sweetly, licking under the angel's jaw and tugging the ruffled collar down a bit to nip at the pale flesh under it. "You poor thing."

"Oh, they'd be so very upset. To see me laid low by my adversary, to see me so compromised - ooh! It’d be such a scandal!" The angel giggled, insinuating his fingers into the tight waist of Crowley's breeches, nudging his knee against his 'enemy's' thigh. "There would be questions and accusations and maybe even a trial! But mostly, I'm certain they'd be positively envious of me."   
  
"Gabriel and Lord Beelzebub would faint dead away," Crowley snickered against the angel's neck, while tugging loose the ribbon that held the ruffles together. "And yes, the entire host of Heaven would be green with envy. So many wanted you for their own ends, and yet here you are: snatched from their hands by a lowly hell-spawn." His hand slid under the blouse, and he kept kissing in a downward direction.

The angel moaned, sweet and slow as honey, pressing himself into Crowley's nimble hands. He arched his back toward those kisses, the swell of his flesh like a shifting tide under his garments. "Oh... I was rather thinking, ah, that- that they'd be envious of me... because I have you. It’s very unfair of me to hoard you all to myself. They have no clue what wonders you could give them.”   


Aziraphale was bathing Crowley with such sweet words again, and his heart twisted in joy and disbelief. Heaven, envious of his company? He severely doubted it, but it was nice to hear all the same.

  
“However,” the angel continued, drawing his partner from his thoughts. “I don't think I'm keen on sharing, my delight.” He traced his demon's jaw and ear with soft fingertips, and then nestled in to growl, "You're  _ mine _ , and I am greedy."

Heat rose along Crowley’s neck when the angel whispered possessively to him. "Yes," he rasped back, hand sliding downward. "What I have, and what I am, is yours.” Quite deliberately, he palmed the swelling front of those breechess. “As you are mine. My own greedy bastard angel."

Unable to resist the silken trap of Crowley's hair, the angel sank his fingers into it again. "I am yours. I will be nowhere but between my room and yours. If I didn't have to appease my overseers, I wouldn't leave this bed. Tell me what you'd have of me, love of my heart. I care for nothing on this voyage but your pleasure."

" Stay with me," came the reply, and the truth of it was raw and plaintive. "That's all I want, angel: to be near you. When I lay down and when I wake, I want to see you. When I breathe, I want my lungs to be full of your scent. When I eat, I want to taste you on my tongue.”   
  
Aziraphale flushed slightly; his partner wasn’t usually so forthright, and it was utterly endearing. “As I said, I  _ will  _ have to spend brief periods away for work. But any time beyond that is yours.” 

The serpent nodded, seeming satisfied by that. “Also, at some point, I..." He looked away, embarrassed. "I want to... to know what you feel like. I-Inside me. Like how the humans do it."

The celestial all but vibrated, eyes wide. "Oh- Oh, my goodness. Really?" It wasn’t as though he hadn't thought about the myriad of ways that humans enjoyed intimacy, and he'd been very happy to try some of them with Crowley. Hands were delightful. Kissing was a joy. Fellatio was downright  _ inspired _ . But that was as far as he’d ever ventured, with Crowley or anyone before him, simply due to Heaven’s obnoxiously strict laws. Of course, human bodies were made to fit together, and he had an idea of how that worked. Thinking about taking that step with Crowley made him shiver, his cock twitching, and he exhaled heavily. "Of course, love. I would be honoured to share that experience with you."

By this point, Crowley had covered his face with both hands, red as a tomato, seductive composure gone. Oh lord below, he'd been thinking about doing  _ that _ with Aziraphale for decades. Now he'd gone and said it aloud, and there was no taking it back. The angel's enthused response, though, allowed the demon to peek out of his fingers. "Really? I thought maybe it was... never mind." He cleared his throat. "There's, ah... obviously, the mismatched parts tend to fit together more easily, but- whichever way you'd prefer, I don't mind." He'd used both before.

"Well, it- this  _ would  _ be my first time with the penetrative aspect of things,” Aziraphale admitted rather bashfully. “But I’m always glad to try new things. And if it's with you, I know it'll be wonderful." He sat up, clasping his hands together in his excitement and wriggled in place on the bed. "First things first: my maypole is rubbing a hole in my unmentionables, and I absolutely must get out of these wet things if we're to continue."

Oh - they were doing this  _ now.  _ It surprised the demon slightly that Aziraphale, for all his hedonism, had never dabbled in human copulation. Crowley kept it to himself that he mostly certainly had, by necessity; many temptations were easier to accomplish when you had certain... experience. He wagered that partnering with his angel would be very different and much more satisfying. Then his mouth quirked into a smile at the thinly veiled request, and he rose from the bed and knelt between the angel's knees. "Let's get them off, then." The shoes came off first, then the breeches, then the stockings, and then finally the underwear (the angel was truly about to burst out of them by then). Each item was folded and laid aside.

The angel preened and sighed under Crowley's solicitous attentions, curling his toes and biting his lip, cheeks flushed and ears hot before he was completely divested of clothing. "Thank you kindly." He reclined into the feather mattress, stretching himself like a sleek, well-fed cat after a bowl of cream, his milky skin, plump stomach and round thighs the envy of the most salacious Renaissance painters.

"Of course, love." Crowley's fingers immediately twitched when they saw the angel spread out there like a feast. His own shoes were kicked off, and his shirt went flying, then he was right back to his ministrations between those thighs. Using his arms and head, he worshiped that plush, creamy, painter's-dream of a body, rubbing his face against the inner thighs and stomach, teasing the downy curls, and kissing everywhere except that impatiently bobbing effort. Ahh, it was so lovely to finally do this.. and tease a little, too. "I love your body, angel. If I could have a bed like this, I'd never leave it."

There was a specific moment, a particular look,  _ I'm not too soft? I'm not too old-looking? I'm not too…?  _ But he saw the adoration and hunger in Crowley's sulphur eyes, and it melted his insecurities like a torch to snow. He shivered and moaned, mewled at being touched so tactfully, clutching at the mattress and spreading his knees further, "I- I love how you enjoy me. And how you fit against me, like two halves of a shell. I love the way your body responds when I touch you. Ah! I would let you curl up, right here, and live in the circle of my arms."

There was not a single thing, not a hair, not a crease, not a curve, on Aziraphale that Crowley did not completely worship. "I would live there, without question, and live off your breath and heat." His gaze flicked to that erection, and he found himself wondering if it would fit properly. His own effort was standing at attention as well; clearly, it did not share his worry. No matter. Opening his mouth, the demon tended to the angel's length and the dainty satchel beneath with his lips and tongue, while both hands rested on that snowy stomach. Ahh, the musky scent down here was particularly pleasant.

Aziraphale cried out, a high, clear wail, a choral note. He sang for the ecstasy of Crowley's lips, the luxurious thrill of his tongue. To try to form words was to risk blaspheming, so easily had his lover unraveled him. There was the spark of grace, the awe of life, in that one point of heat between his thighs. How strange that mortal bodies had been made with a conduit to the divine just there. And "Oh! Crowley, Oh!" The heat of him growing sweet and earthy, lobelia and marigold, human sweat and the unearthly ozone-esque tang of angel.

For a while, all Crowley knew was the scent, sound, and taste of Aziraphale as he lavished attention between those opal thighs. Hearing his name called with such fervor was making his breeches feel much too snug, but he didn't stop until the angel was quivering and that length was shiny with his saliva. Then he turned his head and kissed the left inner thigh twice, then latched his mouth onto it, suckinga love-bruise into the skin.

The angel drew a ragged breath, "Haa! Sard it, Crowley!" He threw his head back and sobbed, "You're going to have me embarrass myself before you've had the chance, good lords and ladies!" (Adding the ‘ladies’ was a precaution, so as not to invoke a particular Lord. He groaned loudly at the fresh mark, resolving to let that heal nice and slow, linger on his silky skin as long as it liked.

The tremor that passed through him from the satisfaction of the bite and the resulting cries nearly made Crowley finish in his breeches. "I wish I could say I was sorry," he purred. "But truly, I'm not." He licked the bruise, soothing the tender skin, and then kissed the base of that cock. "Should I do something else, then?"

"You should come kiss me and let me get my hands on your pretty little self. I feel useless with my hands in the linens." Nor did he expect Crowley to be at all remorseful - to Aziraphale, his love was a gift in all things - even when he was being cheeky.

Wiping the coat of saliva from his mouth, the demon rose to his feet. "Right, just a moment," he said with a nod, fumbling with the brass buttons on his breeches for a moment, before sliding them and the stockings off. "There we are." Then, he happily climbed right on top of Aziraphale, resting cozily on that belly, and kissed the corner of that shell-pink mouth.

With starving hands, the angel roamed the landscape of Crowley's sides and back, stroking and tracing as if to commit to memory every inch, every detail. "If you had been carved from marble and breathed into life, I would not be shocked, yet would I be sad, for surely the master who summoned you from the stone would have died in the sorrow of knowing that they could never have made anything more beautiful than you."

Any chill he'd felt in removing the last of his clothing was banished by the encompassing warmth of those hands. The praise made him melt inside. "Your talent with words was utterly wasted as a soldier, angel. That tongue of yours is pure silver."

"Many a warrior was also a poet. But I don't really think I'd be happy as either one. I loathe violence, and poets are always so mopey." Aziraphale settled his palms at Crowley's hips and tilted his head to kiss him again: On the temples, on the eyelids, on each cheek, on the chin. "You make me happy. You make me so happy, it frightens me, but I wouldn't stop you for anything. And you make me randy as a quean when you look at me like that, you should know."

Like a serpent on a heated stone, Crowley basked in the heat of his angel's adoration. It was a place inside him that had been empty for centuries, that he'd barely been aware of himself; now he knew he'd never be able to live without it being filled again and again. The knowledge of this was wondrous and terrifying. "You mean when I look at you like you're a delicious banquet, just waiting for me to consume it?"

"Is that it? You want to swallow me? Like - what was it? A frumenty?" The angel was teasing now, smirking. "You look at me like I'm the only thing in the room. You look at me like I'm water in the desert. And I look at you like a blind person seeing the sun rise for the first time. I want you so much, I ache, and your restlessness in my lap is doing nothing to assuage me. Please, my love. Teach me."

"I worship you,” the demon whispered reverently. “I adore you. You are my sun, angel, the brightest star in my sky." And he kissed Aziraphale's temple. But his body was also aching. "I want you, as well," he groaned softly. "I want to be ruined by you." The way they were situated, it would be all too easy to just shift his hips and sink down... but Crowley wasn't quite ready for that. "Most humans start with the receiver on their back, and the giver on top." Once they'd switched places, Crowley coaxed his partner into using lubricated fingers to prepare his backside.

The desire to do things correctly just barely won out over his urge to hurry, and Aziraphale gently and attentively did as he was bade, working the slipperiness Crowley had miracled for him into his willing partner's entrance. He had only read about this practice, with oil or butter, but he didn't know what the scentless lubrication he was using actually was. Gently, he recalled, and slowly, curling his fingers just so until he grazed over something that made Crowley jolt.  _ Oh, do that again!  _

The demon could sense the urgency that Aziraphale was just barely holding back, the desire to press forward quickly and be inside him. But he remembered what had happened to his body the last time someone had rushed this step (the human male involved barely escaped in one piece), so he made sure the angel was educated. Then that spot inside him was found and provoked until his effort was weeping, and he begged the angel to stop so they could continue. "Phew... Right, so... erm... it's ready now, so you just get yourself slick too, and then get between my legs... that's right... and then just aim it and slide it in."

It took a few tries to get the position right, and eventually Aziraphale simply hoisted one of Crowley's legs up and tucked the ankle under his arm, gripping the demon's lithe hips and finding his mark at last. "Alright, love? I don't want to hurt you. It’s such a small hole, and I'm… well." He coughed modestly, blushing. But he pressed forward when urged, surprised at the easy give. "Oh!"

"Nff..." Crowley bit his lower lip just a little from the initial push. "M'fine. See, that's why you have... have to..." His brain was forgetting how to make words against, on account of there being an angel cock pushing into his arse and- and- was this really happening? Aziraphale was really hovering over him, between his legs. He swallowed. "Um.... an' then, you just... you just keep pushing, 'til it's all in."

The angel nodded. He could do that; he  _ was  _ doing that. Huffing short breaths as he steadied himself, Aziraphale sank in, inch by aching inch. "You're so warm inside..." He could feel the difference with far more acuteness now that his prick was deep in Crowley's rear, rather than just his blunt fingers. "And... And oh, that feels so- nh -so good!" He seated himself as deep as he could, shifting his other knee over his partner's thigh and possibly giving rise to the phrase 'fuck me sideways'.

In their current position, the demon’s flexible spine was showing its usefulness, allowing his lower body to twist as needed. The angel's girth was impossible to ignore, and he felt... full? Yes. Unbearable excitement was rising in his body, making him quiver inside and his eyes go completely yellow. "Fffffucking hell," he hissed hotly. "Sssso once you're both ready, you just start moving your hips in a... in a smooth rocking motion?" It was hard to describe, but he knew the angel would figure out his own rhythm. "Slow, and then a little faster, and so on."

Catching his breath, Aziraphale nodded. "I've seen this part." He'd only been confused about the engagement; the motion, however, he had a fair grasp of, as demonstrated by his emulation of an utterly delicious roll of the hips, his cock dragging against just about every inch inside of Crowley. The angel whimpered, repeating the motion, his stormy eyes lidding as he got lost in the feel of it. He eventually pulled himself back to some semblance of awareness and asked, "Is that good?"

Watching Aziraphale get lost in the feeling of his insides made the demon's toes curl. This body wasn't just a tool for temptations, for clandestine tricks and torments; this body could bring pleasure and delight to the one he loved most. It did help that the angel was rather a natural at the movements. "Yesss," he groaned, gripping at the sheets. "If you shift a bit to the right, you can hit th- _ nnh! _ Yes, that... aim f-for that."

Adjusting to the angle Crowley liked so much, Aziraphale picked up the pace, quickly getting overly enthusiastic about it. He'd never felt so alive and real, nor so known, as he was at that moment; like glass, he was transparent, fragile yet flexible, full of volatile things. As their bodies churned, the angel began to make a repeated, breathy 'ah!' sound, the muscles in his body rippling and tensing with each shiver of pleasure. Apparently he had found a spot he liked, as well. "I- oh!" Slower, slow, relax. He forced himself to calm down, reigning his frantic thrusts to a gentler rocking.

Crowley’s wager had proven true: partnering with his angel was infinitely more enjoyable than his prior encounters. All of them paled in comparison to being considered by, to being cared for by, to being so very loved by the marvelous creature above him. Pleasure was rippling along his spine from that spot inside, his effort throbbing, from that harder pace; when it slowed, he was panting heavily, shiny with sweat. This continued for a while, with them shifting the speed and angle and Crowley's leg position now and then. "How... How is it, angel? How's it feel?"

Like everything, like nothing he'd known in his life. Like finding out he'd had a gaping hole in his essence only by having it filled. Later, Aziraphale would wonder what he truly was, as he was no longer quite an angel, nor demon, nor mortal. Crowley was forging the molten-red heart of him into something new. He pushed and pulled, seeking more of that sensation - not the orgasm, but that synchronicity of mind and body, that filling-up of his soul. He glowed, radiating a soft light of divinity, his holiness bleeding from the lines in his skin. This was nothing like Falling, but he could feel something moving, changing, growing - and it felt Good. "I can't... I can't tell you. There are no words - there is no word."

_ Dark Lord _ , did he understand that! And yet, Crowley was tickled that sex with him was enough to put his eloquent angel at a complete loss for words. Not that he was doing much better, as a soft hum of approval was all he could manage in reply. They'd been at this for nearly an hour, and Aziraphale was showing no signs of wear. His legs were getting tired from holding them up, though. "Say, can I... can I turn over? I think I heard the Spaniards refer to it as  _ perreo _ \- when you get mounted from behind." Crowley, about two seconds too late, realized that he'd just offered to present his ass to the angel. "Or- Or not and we can stay like this!"

It took a few seconds, a few more dragging thrusts, before the meaning of the words sank in. Then he straightened and pulled out, petting the demon's stomach tenderly, before taking hold of Crowley by the hip and shoulder and simply flipping him onto his belly. 

"Okay, just a- gah!" And like that, the demon was on his stomach, upper half being held rather firmly down while his backside was bared before God and everyone (except, he realized, possibly not).  
  
"Like that?" The angel pinned Crowley with a hand between the scapulae and ground his hips against his lover's upturned rump. "... Like a dog, you said?"

A molten wave of heat went through Crowley’s body, and he knew the angel could feel it. Oh god, oh god, this was just- and with the casual handling, too! Being maneuvered and forced into a position of the angel's liking was far more exciting than it should be "....yeah, like a dog," he squeaked, keeping his face buried in the mattress out of sheer embarrassment, hands shielding his head.

Abrupt, perhaps, but not entirely rude, Aziraphale leaned down and kissed the back of Crowley's neck. "You're gorgeous. Relax." He began to use his fingers again, massaging them into his beautiful demon to carefully undo the tension he'd caused with his impulsive action. "There's my love. How good you feel, how warm and wet… it’s all for me, isn't it? Just having you under me is making me want to shoot off. Your lascivious moans are as a nock upon my bow."

In the not-so-distant future, Crowley would wholly relish being flipped over and mounted by Aziraphale with no preamble or process. This time, their first time, it made him want to curl in on himself and vanish from sheer mortification. This was a horrible idea, this was... his thoughts were muddled by the fingers in his backside again, teasing from this new angle, making his back arch down and hips push back. The tension was fleeing like mist before the sunrise. It was Aziraphale behind him. Relax. "When you do shoot off," he panted. "I want you to do it inside."

Feeling Crowley slacken again, Aziraphale nudged his partner's legs wider with his thighs and leaned down into him, resheathing himself into that infernal, blissful heat. "Ah, yes, oh yes! I will give you everything." He pinned Crowley flat to the mattress again. With one hand in the middle of his back, the other at his bony pelvis, and the angel ground into him at the most delightful, wicked angle, just right to hit that spot that had gotten his demon to make the prettiest noises. Aziraphale snapped his hips, chasing that spark of mortality, that primal edge, until his moans sounded more like growls.

The pressure on his back was oddly soothing, and also extremely arousing. Crowley’s hands were no longer in his own hair, instead grasping at the sheets to brace himself against those relentless hips. Frankly, the demon hadn't been sure of his ability to climax from this, but those doubts were banished when Aziraphale found that perfect angle again and made his voice fill the cabin. The growling behind him was tapping into something primal in his own mind, lifting his feet to tangle them around the angel's ankles. No escaping. No retreating from his body. "Angel... my back," came a soft moan. "Scratch my back!"

Not exactly at his intellectual peak at the moment, Aziraphale struggled to process the request-  _ He has an itch  _ **_now_ ** _? _ \- and his rhythm faltered. Then he remembered, vividly, the feel of soft, perfect skin under his fingernails. Lifting the hand that was pressed between Crowley's shoulder blades, he scraped it roughly down his spine, from nape to coccyx, leaving four darkening stripes. As the first set of marks reddened and tingled, he repeated the motion, raking fresh lines to either side while fucking with renewed determination. He would have Crowley screaming, thrashing, begging, sobbing and still not be done with him. Images of having his lovely creature come undone in his arms spurred him on; he felt tireless, timeless, indefatigable .

The falter gave Crowley a second to breathe and reach for his scattered thoughts, only to have them all thrown to the wind when nails dug into his nape.  _ There it is, nails, it's coming, it's coming!  _ Then he did thrash, wailing, as the angel tore at his back with a viciousness that was heretofore unseen, sweat seeping into the raw skin and stinging enough to make his eyes water. It was unbearable. It was just what he needed. He couldn't talk anymore, his mind completely reduced to the animal midbrain, and he could only communicate with vocalizations from deep in his chest. He twisted, he swore, and then he screamed  _ angel, angel, angel! _ as his entire body seemed to contract and coil inward as release struck him and seed all but poured from his cock to soak the bed.

Aziraphale gasped at the tightening, shuddering, rippling around his cock, slowing his thrusts to feel Crowley's climax around him, moaning his lover's name as moisture beaded along his nape. He’d learned several very important and wonderful things all at once, but stopping was not one of them. He continued to furrow Crowley's back with his nails, beat the pattern of his hip bones into the fallen being's firm little arse, and bite at the edge of that sweat-slick trapezius. He felt like a mortal creature: a beast, a dog, rutting like the animal it was, feral and mindless.

Based on his prior experiences, the act of copulating was often over quickly, usually lasting no more than a few minutes and leaving him sticky and dissatisfied. In truth, it was utterly exasperating, but Crowley had come to expect and accept it as occupational nonsense. As such, it wasn't unreasonable that he'd expected the same from his angelic partner, but nothing was further from the truth. He'd just had an orgasm that rattled his neurons, and Aziraphale was still going at it after nearly two hours. Then he was bitten, and he yelped and wailed, body clenching and rippling again, pushing back hard, arms splayed out front as if in worship. _ I've never been so happy to be wrong. _

The thing about Time was that it had very little meaning to a primordial creation. Aziraphale could stretch each stroke of his hips into languid minutes and keep himself erect for days, if he chose. He could push his human corporation (and Crowley’s) to its physical limits and often past them; the light crackling through his skin healed and renewed any damage caused by the strain. He had walked for four years to find his way here, and he could damned well fuck until he was begged to stop. And if he wasn't? Perhaps 'lay waste' was not entirely hyperbole. Now and again, his body tried to convince him to climax, and each time he forced that urge aside, effectively edging himself within Crowley's flesh. He pushed the demon to peak after peak while denying his own. "Yes, oh yes, my heart, how I love you," he breathed. "I could love you like this for days on end. If you need a respite, I need you to tell me."

"I will," the demon promised, even as he contracted into another, smaller release. Time, and any sense of it, became a white blur. After Crowley's hips could no longer withstand the assault of  _ perreo _ , he suggested that they switch to him riding atop the angel, a position where he could control the pace a bit more. He was, however, unprepared for how obscene the angel's facial expressions could become when he'd started undulating on that cock, or for how the sensation of being penetrated and filled from below could erase any coherent thought. That position gave him another hard orgasm, and gave Aziraphale new crescents in his chest. Eventually, they moved into a sort of sitting position, with the demon clinging to those strong shoulders, grinding quite lewdly in his lap while the angel would thrust upwards in time with him. After somewhere around eight hours had passed, he was drenched in sweat, and he knew he needed to rest soon. "Angel," he rasped into the curve of the nearest ear, far too fucked-silly to mind his tongue. "Hitting my limit real soon now- nngh! But... you've been holding it in for me, and I love you for it, but- ah!- but I- I want you to release, too. I want everything inside me. I want it, please, angel,  _ please _ ..."

Aziraphale leaned his forehead against Crowley's collarbone, feeling as though his brain had turned into warm liquor and was sloshing happily about in his skull. He'd nearly lost track of the idea that he  _ could  _ come, that the end goal wasn't simply to watch Crowley whine and squirm and arch in bliss over and over. Unable to articulate his thoughts, he kissed the demon soundly and nodded, and then began to thrust faster, bucking his hips up, the muscles rippling in his powerful, padded thighs. The sensation of impending climax began to rise again, a tingling low in the belly. This time, Aziraphale pursued it, letting it grow into a blaze. "Oh, Crowley, yes!" He let his head fall back, woolly curls swaying about his shoulders, as the fire turned to ice, rippling cool up his spine, numbing his limbs. All he could do was cry out, repeating Crowley's name and a few choice words like ' _ darling _ ' and  _ 'yes' _ . As he got closer,  _ 'more'  _ was added, followed by a string of increasingly emphatic  _ 'fuck's  _ and finally ending in the angel hilting himself entirely within his lovely demon's rear and arching back as his peak took him.

And goodness, did it ever take him! His nails bit into Crowley's sides, mouth open and eyes closed in a silent scream, his entire body pulsing with release as his cock pumped viscous fluid into the demon’s belly… and after edging for so long, there was a _ lot  _ to give. Eventually, his arms went slack, settling Crowley over his chest as the last few spurts leapt from his aching, sated prick. And when he was finally,  _ finally _ empty, Aziraphale sank back into the pillows, looking like the happiest unmitigated mess to ever live.

This was something Crowley wanted to see, to make happen, over and over again. The angel's desperation, his passion, in pursuing that peak and using his body as the conduit, made the demon wish they could be even closer, to meld together until they shared the same skin. He hadn't planned on climaxing again, yet another one was swelling in his belly from watching Aziraphale edge closer and closer, and call for him, and swear, oh  _ lord  _ that made him weak, and he sang a final refrain as that erection swelled and pulsed and emptied its contents into his welcoming belly (his own cock twitched, but he'd long since run out of fluids to accompany his own release.) He'd swear he could feel a bulge in his lower abdomen once the angel was finally spent and laying across the pillows, looking like he was just barely staying in his corporeal form. Not willing to let the celestial’s prick escape his body just yet, Crowley slumped across his partner’s broad, soft torso. Wiping his brow and mouth, he nuzzled into the pale curls on Azriaphale’s chest. That was how they stayed for a long minute, basking, recovering, and remembering how to breathe.

An angel's afterglow, it turned out, was entirely literal. Aziraphale gleamed like a candle, his halo dimly visible in the dark room. It was just enough to warm, but not to burn. He gathered Crowely to him in tenderness and jealousy, here was something precious, here was something  _ his _ . The sense of fulfilment and joy could only compare to one moment in his memory - that of his creator holding him and imbuing him with Her love. Angels had once been close like this - not carnally, but in spirit, had bonded and intertwined as one. Since the Fall, it was as if something important had been ripped away from Heaven, and had taken the ability for Angels to love unguardedly with it. He kept his lover held like that as long as he could, but dawn was cresting over the side of the ship; he could tell by the stirring of humans above. Soon he would have to be available for Heaven's commission. 

A demon's afterglow was, predictably, not as literal, but there was an aura of peacefulness around him that couldn't be ignored or denied. Aziraphale's grace tingled softly against his skin, warm rays of sunlight to ward off the ocean chill. He couldn't have imagined their first union would turn out so well; he thought for sure that he'd have done something, said something, to ruin it. Yet here they were. This creature, in whatever form, in however many lifetimes would pass, was his, and he leaned into that embrace and squeezed with his entire body, for when Crowley opened himself to another, he held nothing back. Eventually, they did have to disentangle from each other and put on a presentable face for society, and Aziraphale was required to take down the shield and be available for his work. Crowley had remained sprawled across the bed for most of the morning, requiring a long nap to recover, and discovered upon waking that the fluids inside his body could and would escape when gravity got involved. Bright red, he'd waved the mess away and restored himself and the room to a fresh, clean state.

The seven days that followed were spent in relative harmony. A storm blew in on the fourth day that caused some concern, but they made it safely through. Crowley spent his days ambling around the ship, chatting up the sailors and hearing their stories, and causing mischief--it was remarkable, really, how much of a row could be caused just from a missing earring or a mislaid spyglass. In the evenings, he was always in his cabin, waiting, knowing the angel would call on him.    
  
Aziraphale's days were spent making small repairs to the ship, bestowing very small blessings upon the passengers prone to seasickness, finding and undoing Crowley's mischief (which now felt like a game), and watching dolphins play in the wake with a sense of profound calm and satisfaction. In the evenings, he'd find something to bring to Crowley - some decent alcohol, a box of preserved dates, a backgammon board with all the pieces. However, each day inevitably ended in nearly the same way: with a flurry of noise and activity that would’ve no doubt upset the humans on board if the room hadn’t been supernaturally soundproofed. Before long, the interior of Crowley’s cabin looked as though some wild beast had been held captive inside it, for all the deep gouges scratched into the wooden walls... and the floors and the ceiling, for that matter. Once they discovered that their carnal adventures needn’t be restricted to the bed, they’d made good use of nearly every surface available. 

On the sixth day, after a great many experiments in position and location (and several pieces of furniture destroyed and then miracled whole again), Aziraphale broached the subject of switching roles. Naturally, the angel was quite happy to fulfill Crowley’s every need, but he was also curious about being on the receiving end of things. He’d never tried it, he explained, but Crowley had made it look so pleasurable that he couldn’t resist wanting a turn. Needless to say, the serpent was thrilled by the opportunity, and he guided Aziraphale through the process with all the patience and gentleness he could muster - that is, until Aziraphale adjusted to it and insisted on a rougher pace. (In Crowley’s meager opinion, there was truly nothing comparable to having those powerful, thick thighs locked around his waist.) That particular session lasted the rest of the day, and it was so much fun that they agreed that ‘switching’ was definitely part of their repertoire. 

Then, as all things must end, so too did their voyage. On the seventh day, the boson called out the sighting of land, and there was a small, but cheerful, celebration on the deck as they sailed into port, the cliffs of merry ol’ England spreading across the horizon. A few hasty miracles restored the battered cabin to its proper state (sparing them a very awkward conversation with the captain as to why the walls appeared to have been mauled by a lion), and the angel and demon prepared to disembark and begin the next leg of their journey.


	7. Business and Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our heroes make it back to England, to continue a frustrating and informative leg of their journey. After which, with more questions raised than resolved, the lovers must, for now, part ways.
> 
> This chapter features fan art, some of you might remember it from a few months ago when we were originally writing this chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to Joy_Shines for being our beta-reader and co-conspirator.

The ship docked safely in Plymouth harbor, where a plush carriage was waiting for the angel and demon (even if the driver didn’t know it); soon after, they and their luggage were off the ship and on their way. The carriage took them as far as Taunton, where they had to switch to a form of transportation that did not require cobbled roads. Crowley was reluctant to leave the carriage behind, but unfortunately, even he had to admit that the mules were the safest and most sensible option for traveling on the uneven paths through Somerset. He and his mule, a dappled grey female called ‘Bonnie’, gave each other considerable amounts of side-eye before he bribed her with apples and carefully climbed aboard. (Aziraphale’s mule, a white-socked brown fellow named ‘Jobie’, required no such cajoling.)

The second leg of the trip to the Abbey in Somerset was slow and abysmally boring, as their only company was a deacon and two young clergymen, also on the backs of large, sturdy animals, which negotiated the rough trails with patient expertise. There was little they could talk about or do that wasn't just business and bullshit, so they stuck mostly to the latter. After all the time at sea, the demon had been happy to have his feet on solid earth again, and being on a listing mule all _blessed_ day felt like a step backward in that regard. However, he made the most of it, and cheerily conversed and bantered with Aziraphale and their escorts on the way to the Abbey.  
  
The group briefly stopped at Bridgewater so that Aziraphale could purchase gifts of inks and salt for the Abbot (precious but practical commodities, this far inland). While he had the chance, the angel also treated their human associates to a decent meal at a local tavern - better than they could have gotten on their meager wages.

Once they reached the first destination, Aziraphale presented the gifts, which were, at least, better received than the news of Edmund's passing. The manner of the preacher's death was... not elaborated upon, and the Abbot did not ask. Meanwhile, Crowley, who couldn’t enter the Abbey itself, passed the time by sprinkling some blasphemous thoughts into the minds of nearby humans and helping himself to a rundlet of unblessed communion wine from a strangely unattended storehouse. Later, after a very quiet and terse midday meal, the angel rejoined Crowley, and they enjoyed some of the poached wine together before packing up the mules and continuing on their way westward. 

The second leg of the journey to Dover was twice as long and thrice as dull. When the mules needed rest, they usually found a public house where the beasts could be properly stabled and fed, while the angel and demon sampled local brews and dishes. It wasn't nearly as much fun without human escorts to entertain them, and the urgency of Aziraphale's mission in Russia prevented them from pausing to enjoy anything of interest they might have passed. After nearly three weeks of being glued to the other's hip, going back to the old status quo was decidedly uncomfortable. By day, they were using oft-traveled roads and moving through bustling towns and cities; by night, their accommodations (typically little more than straw pallets in some dusty corner) wouldn’t have allowed for any shenanigans even with Aziraphale’s privacy trick. Any fondness between them had to be relayed in more surreptitious ways: a wink, a smile, a passing touch. (Though admittedly, the demon spent most of the journey wrapped in wool blankets like a grouchy swaddled infant, and Aziraphale, in his heavy coats that caught every drop of morning mist, became not unlike a damp and scraggly old cat in disposition. As such, affection really was a lesser issue while on the road.)  
  
At last, after nearly six day’s time, they reached Dover, something for which Crowley's back and hips were most thankful. "Fuckin' finally," the demon grumbled as they headed down the main road, the mules' hoofs crunching in the gravel. "My arse is about three different kinds of sore right now."

"Pep up, Crowley. I've reserved a room for the night, with real feather beds, and there is a hot spa at the inn as well.”

"Hallelujah for that. I'll be hopping right in that spa, thanks." 

“Let's get our weary beasties to the stables first. They’ve earned a long respite, I think.” Aziraphale patted Jobie’s sweaty neck and guided him to the lodging's stables, and Crowley nodded and followed suit. Dismounting, the angel smiled up at his riding companion as he stretched his legs and rubbed his rear in a manner that would’ve been unforgivable if any ladies had been present; as it was, a certain devil had to distract himself to prevent an indecent situation in his breeches. While Aziraphale made arrangements with the stablemaster to sell Bonnie and Jobie (and have the man donate their cuts to the local poorhouse), Crowley unloaded their trunks, taking a moment to admire the well-tended grounds before they both headed inside. 

The inn itself was a recently-opened hidden gem: a charmingly quaint brick building perched on a hill and encircled by a hard-packed dirt road. While the exterior was darkened by soot, it was luxurious within - decked out with lush new furnishings and draperies and freshly polished wood. Even so, the familiar scent of drying herbs and stewed fall vegetables gave it a warm, homey feeling. The owner's wife let them in personally and escorted them to their room; quite curiously, their luggage was already awaiting them. Smiling, she asked if they'd fancy some supper. Crowley did not, thank you, but he did request a pint of whatever house brew was available. Aziraphale, of course, accepted the offer and also made mention that she should keep a watchful eye out for a delivery for ‘Mr. Fell’. Nodding, she left them the room key and took her leave.

The serpent sighed in relief as he warmed his hands by the fire, which was already crackling brightly on the hearth. The suite was elegant but cozy, comprised of two large beds with a thick sheepskin rug between them, two finely upholstered chairs, a small iron woodstove, and a handsome oaken bureau and mirror. It was possibly the best the inn had to offer, but Heaven didn't skimp when their best agent was on assignment. "Lovely room," he remarked. "Did I hear you say you were expecting a package?”

“Indeed.” The angel locked the door and took off his overcoat, hanging it on a nearby hook.

“Oh. You never mentioned that."

"Did I not? Well, I am. If this clear weather holds, it should be here by tomorrow."

“May I ask what it is?”

The angel grinned. “Ever so curious, my sweet. You’ll have to wait and see.” 

The serpent made a small, disappointed noise, but he didn’t press the matter. After they’d taken a moment to scrape and brush the dust, mud, and mule hair from their clothing and switch from riding boots to house shoes, they headed back downstairs for supper. After a large bowl of hearty chicken and green pea soup and several mugs of quality local beer that tasted of flint and oak, their moods had considerably improved. Their bodies, however, were still quite battered, and Crowley’s suggestion of a hot soak sounded like the best idea ever conceived. By request, the owner’s wife graciously gave them towels and robes and directed them to the spa. 

To their surprise, it was quite spacious, the spring itself tiled in polished black stones and full of chalky, steaming water. Stone benches were scattered around it, and there was an adjacent men's changing room for them to undress and store their clothes. Crowley’s bathing attire of choice was his usual short, black knickers; they accentuated the length of his legs and the bright shade of his hair. By contrast, Aziraphale had chosen a pair of knee-length white linen trousers, exposing the smooth pink skin and downy hair of his chest and arms, and the demon had to resist the urge to skim his fingers over them.

Clearing his throat, Crowley tossed his robe and towel onto the nearest bench before approaching the edge of the spring, testing the temperature with a foot before jumping right in. (The nearby patrons did not appreciate being splashed. Crowley did not appreciate their lack of spontaneity.)  
  
More aware of propriety, Aziraphale smoothly eased himself down into the pool, sighing happily as the heated water soothed his aching muscles. As he stretched his arms, Crowley couldn’t help but see that unusual wrist tattoo. Now quite a stark black, it was also larger and more distinct in shape, new lines forming a rounded box above where the M-shape had gained a third lobe. If Aziraphale had noticed these changes, he hadn't mentioned it, nor given any hint that it worried him; even now, he didn't attempt to hide it.

But it _had_ changed, and Crowley felt an inkling of unease.

There were other people in the spa with them, of course, and he was mindful of that - couldn’t very well go about discussing ancient gods and magic around strangers. Resolving to bring the topic up later in the privacy of their room, the serpent spent several minutes paddling around with only his head above the water, hair free from its binding and splaying out behind him. The toasty, mineral-rich water was clearly funneled in from a spring nearby, as it smelled faintly of earth and sulfur and salts, but it felt luxuriously silky against his skin. Once he was bored of that, he drifted back towards his partner and sank to the bottom of the spring a foot or two away, floating serenely and letting the heat ease the soreness from his muscles.

Meanwhile, Aziraphale had gotten to talking to a handsome, dark-skinned merchant trader from Portugal about travel and goods - especially silk trading along the southern coast of the Mediterranean, traveling from China to Morocco, and the treacherous route through the desert. "I would certainly be interested, Simao,” he was saying warmly. “I'm to appear at the Imperial court in Moscow, and I'm sure a selection of those spices would make a fine gift."

"Moscow! Is a long way," the man called Simao exclaimed in careful, broken English. "Very cold in winter. Important journey?"

"Oh, very," replied Aziraphale. "There's finally to be a peaceful accord with the Ottoman Empire. Trade routes are to be established through Europe.” He gave the smallest of winks. “Be sure to use that information wisely, now.” This human was smart, strong, and kind-hearted. He knew Simao would become rich and use his wealth to do wonderful things in his homeland; surely it couldn’t hurt to give the man a little inside knowledge?

Even underwater, Crowley's hearing was just fine, and he titled his head slightly to listen in. Aziraphale hadn't talked much about his upcoming mission, and he was curious about the details. Or that's what he told himself. They were just having a friendly conversation. Aziraphale was his own person; he could talk to whoever he wanted. Crowley was simply curious and certainly not at all jealous. He wasn't. Nope.

The angel didn't break conversation while stretching out one of his legs and prodding Crowley with his toes: a reminder that one doesn't sit underwater for more than two minutes when humans were around, and making it clear that he was very aware of where his partner was.

 _Oops_. In his concentration, Crowley had forgotten that most humans couldn't stay under for more than a minute or two, and he was going on four. Mentally, he composed himself. This was fine. They were fine. Everything was, and would be, fine. Tipping his feet down, he resurfaced (with an audible inhale to make it convincing) and wiped water from his eyes. Thankfully, no one seemed to have noticed his mistake. Leaning against the edge, elbows propped up on the smooth stones, he remained a polite two feet or so from Aziraphale.

"Ah, good. Simao, this is my old friend and traveling companion, Mr. Anthony Crowley. Quite soon we'll be parting ways for a while, but tonight, I am pleased to have his company." He graced Crowley with a smile that rivaled the sunrise for breadth and light. "I've just been talking to Simao here - another wayfarer - while I waited for you to join us, my dear." The smile was beautiful, but it also told Crowley to behave. 

The demon felt justified in scooting a foot closer, now that he'd been brought into the conversation… even if that smile did threaten to singe his eyebrows.

Simao grinned broadly, teeth stark white against the dark skin, and reached across Aziraphale to extend his hand in greeting. “ _¡_ _Olá!_ Nice to be meeting you, Mr. Crowley."  
  
"Please, call me Anthony," Crowley replied, ever so politely, as he shook the man’s hand firmly. His own smile was more for Aziraphale’s benefit. _Look, aren’t I being good?_

Observing the interaction, the wattage in Aziraphale’s smile softened from ‘blinding’ to ‘congenial’; to be honest, he’d been a trifle anxious about Crowley’s reaction to this human. However, it seemed he’d been worrying about nothing, and he was glad to resume his conversation with Simao. 

It was only consideration for his partner that kept Crowley from falling asleep during the meandering exchange, to which he could contribute very little. A chuckle, a nod, or a hum was the best he could manage, and the rest of the time, he daydreamed of ways one might sow a little discord in an inn - perhaps he could pretend to drown and start some rumors of a haunting. After what felt like hours of ongoing small talk about ladies' fashion, shoes, camels, whales, and other topics of lesser interest to a demon, Aziraphale finally lifted his arms for a stretch, and Crowley inwardly sighed in relief. 

"You've been most gracious, Simao, and I must thank you for the fine conversation,” the angel said sweetly to the human. “But alas, I must take my leave; after nearly a week on a mule's back, I truly am looking forward to the feather bed in my room." He then turned to his demon. "I thought I would take a bottle upstairs with me, if you'd like to join me once you're done here." Bidding them both good night, he rose and climbed from the pool, the soaked fabric of his bathing pants clinging to him nearly indecently as he went to gather his belongings.

Good Lord Below, that arse in those translucent white pants was art in motion. Though he very much wanted to accept that invitation, Crowley quickly found that he wouldn't be able to leave the pool for another few minutes and resigned himself to staying put. The hot water wasn’t helping his situation in the slightest, though he could at least be grateful for the cloudiness that provided a natural censor. 

Tugging his robe tight around his curvy figure, the angel made his way back up to their room. Once there, he used a tiny smidge of his power allowance to start a fire in the little iron stove, stripped off his wet pants and hung them over the stove, and then changed into a pair of soft, drawstring slacks and his rabbit-fur slippers. The towel and robe also went on hooks near the heat-source, and he pulled a chair up within a comfortable distance, before opening a bottle of sweet brandy and pouring some into a pair of treen cups. Aziraphale made himself comfortable, sitting with his feet toward the stove, one of his leatherbound journals open in his lap, sipping brandy and writing scratchy notes and doodling with a graphite pencil. Poor Crowley, left to suffer the very friendly and chatty fellow in the pool, who might indeed have had more of an eye for redheads, but _he_ wouldn't know anything about what humans like, now _would_ he? (As if over a thousand years of taking on temptation jobs hadn’t taught him a thing or two.)

There was nothing Crowley wanted more than to calm himself and leap from the spa to follow Aziraphale, but the big Portuguese human had other plans and sought to keep his attention. Simao seemed all right, for a human, but he was very talkative and very… physical. It took twenty minutes of barely-listening, one uninvited hand on his thigh, and one demonic miracle (catching a towel on fire) for the demon to finally escape the spa. In the chaos, he was able to grab his clothes, wrap his robe around himself, and sprint from the area; mere moments later, he was at the door to their room, flinging it open, slamming it shut, and leaning back on it with his elbows out, looking completely damp and disheveled. "Good fucking _god_ .”  
  
Aziraphale was settled into one of the stuffed horsehair-upholstered chairs, his bare feet up near the stove, and he looked very relaxed and a tad smug. “Language, dear.”  
  
“Gh- _Why_ did you leave me with him?! He wouldn't shut his mouth for anything!”

“Oh, dear. I'm terribly sorry.”

Crowley opened his mouth to snark and then shivered and rubbed his arms. It was too cold to continue this conversation. Once his dirty and wet clothing was laying in a heap by the door, he scurried over to his trunk to dig out some sleepwear. 

Aziraphale, of course, couldn’t resist a less-than-subtle peek at the demon’s naked form. “Would you care for some brandy? It’s of cheaper make, but it warms the belly.”

“Sounds great, thanks.” The demon hastily donned a pair of dark-grey cotton bottoms and a matching long-sleeved shirt, as well as his own rabbit-fur slippers.

“I did wonder what was keeping you,” the angel chuckled as he offered a polished wooden cup to his partner. “From the way you were looking at me, I half-expected you to jump me in the hallway.”

“I wanted to leave sooner,” Crowley grumbled, sipping the brandy while warming his backside by the fire. “But the man had gotten right in my face and just wouldn’t stop talking. Started getting handsy, too, the wanker.”

Distracted from his appreciation of Crowley’s lithe form outlined by firelight, Aziraphale's voice and expression darkened. "Did he? Really?" Oh, he didn't like the sound of that one bit and was starting to think the merchant's good luck might not hold through the night. "How handsy, if I might ask?"   
  


“Eh? Uh…” Crowley was wringing water from his hair, so he didn't quite register the shift in his partner's tone. “He touched my hair once and then kept putting his hand higher and higher up my thigh." An eye roll, a tongue click. "Honestly, I don't know what he thought he was doing.”

  
Aziraphale looked into the fire, quiet for a while, before asking, “I trust you told him you were spoken for?” The question came out in a dry tone, as if it were Crowley's responsibility to stop a strange man from behaving flirtatiously.

The serpent paused then, blinking. “Obviously? Hence why I set a towel on fire and ran back here instead of letting him continue.”  
  
"Good boy." Sipping his brandy, the celestial watched the other being over the rim of his glass with a dry little smirk. "Yes, I think that man is going to learn a lesson about touching what isn't his." And he raised his free hand and made an odd gesture that left a faint glowing shape in the air for just a second. “And you, my dear, are you alright? Here, come sit with me. Let me warm you up."

 _Good boy?_ Crowley stayed where he was for the moment, staring first at that strange, fading symbol and then at his partner with a perturbed expression. "What... what did you just do?"  
  
The angel made a dismissive motion. "Oh, nothing the lad won't survive. He'll still make it home eventually, and he'll still be able to live comfortably on my advice. Perhaps just... a bit less comfortable in the meantime.” He huffed softly. "And I know you can defend your own honour, my lovely, but the very idea that he'd betray my good will like that- well, it got my blood heated something fierce!"

The knowledge that the gesture was merely a wrist slap for Simao settled the demon's nerves. Hell, the merchant probably deserved it; if Crowley hadn't been so preoccupied with escaping, he might've done the same. "Some humans have no manners at all." He did come over then, moving the other chair so he could sit beside Aziraphale and propping his feet up by the little stove. "Ahh.” His toes wiggled, grateful for the heat. “To answer your question, I'm fine. More chilly than anything else from running around in wet smalls, and that's being seen to as we speak."

Topping up both their cups from the bottle, Aziraphale nodded. “Good. Ah- did you say you started a fire?!” 

The demon laughed. "Just a little one.” 

“Goodness me! I suppose it's a good thing we're not staying long.” 

“Not to worry. The staff was already putting it out by the time I left." It _had_ been rather funny to watch the patrons lose their minds over how a wet towel had suddenly gone up in flames. The demon took a long draught from the cup and smacked his lips softly, then leaned over to rest his head on Aziraphale's shoulder. The room was lovely, and it was nice to have some comfort and privacy after weeks on the road. However, it brought with it the knowledge of their imminent parting. "I wish you didn't have to go," he murmured, sighing softly. It was a pointless comment, he knew, but it was still the truth.

"I know,” Aziraphale sighed, kissing the demon’s forehead. “So do I. But we knew I'd be making this voyage eventually. At the very least, I am due for some formal leave. I assure you, the very minute my work is done in Moscow, I will be on the first carriage back to England."  
  
Crowley frowned thoughtfully at the idea of a holiday. Demons couldn't exactly ask the Prince of Hell for time off, but if he was able to procure a target in Soho that ate up all of his precious time and focus... well, he could hardly be punished for that. “I’ll be waiting for you in Soho.”

“Then that’s where I shall meet you. But for now, let me just close the shutters, as it were.” Aziraphale raised his hand. The gesture he made wasn't his usual downward tugging of Heavenly power, but a more circular, horizontal ‘gathering’ motion; once again there was a whoosh and snap of displaced air that tasted faintly of something... Other. As he did this, the mark on his wrist faded a little, as if he were depleting it with use.

Crowley felt that movement, that silent snap of something being cast out like a net, and the trace of something alien drifted by his nose. Earthy. Damp. That questioning in the back of his head pinged again, but he still wasn't ready to listen. "Ahh, that's more like it," he hummed.

"It's nice, isn't it?" The angel flexed his wings in aetherspace, the gesture carrying through to his muscles in the corporeal plane, and then settled back into the chair. One hand rested over his partner’s, the thumb gently stroking the knuckles. "Assuming my delivery arrives tomorrow, I'll be taking the next ferry across. Where will you be headed then?"

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, most likely, Aziraphale was leaving. Crowley felt that tightness in his chest again. "Er, first order of business is a trip downstairs. Have to give a proper report about Edmund and such. Then back to England, barring any other assignments."

“Mmh, duty calls us both, then. At least you’ll be somewhere civilized.”

“Mm.” The demon stared at the fire, fidgeting a bit with his cup. "...Will you write to me?"

"At every stop, my dear. Come, sit here." Aziraphale gestured, putting his feet down, for Crowley to sit with him more literally. Naturally, the demon wasted no time in situating himself across that soft lap, snuggling in, arm around his shoulder, legs folded. "I will miss you every day, and especially at night,” the angel continued. “Will you write back?" Of course, he was sure of the answer, but he wanted to hear it, to remember this for as long as possible.

"Every time, angel," Crowley murmured, nuzzling in those pale, curly locks. "I promise."

"I'm sure I'll be very hungry for you when I return, even more so than I am now. Gird thy loins, starling." Aziraphale chuckled, squeezing his lover around the middle. "I am besotted, and my strength is like water at your touch. Wade in me and permit me but to kiss your ankles." He lifted Crowley's chin to kiss him more traditionally, lips hot and flavored with brandy, skin emitting a pleasant glowing heat.   
  
Crowley purred, savoring the poetry and the kisses, fingers spreading across the angel's jaw. "You've spoiled me, angel," he crooned back. "I've been eating my fill lately, and now I'll be going hungry again." He paused. "Well, y'know, mostly hungry. I'll always have my imagination, and this-" He wiggled his right-hand's fingers, grinning. "-if I get _too_ lonely without you."

"Your hands are wonderful and talented," Aziraphale took one and kissed the palm, and then the other. "These clever little fox paws have made so many of my nights delightful beyond compare, and I know in your absence that they shall leave tracks across my dreams, and steal into my waking thoughts." He turned his attentions to Crowley's throat and collarbone then (the places he most liked to bite) and sucked a mark between the two. "And I shall leave you leopard's roses to recall me."

The eloquent praise continued to make Crowley tremble, as did the idea of being covered in rosette-like marks from his angel’s teeth. “I’d leave them on my skin until you return.”

“What a lovely thought. I shall miss you terribly, my darling. But for tonight, at least, we have a room to ourselves, and fine big feather beds to lay in." The celestial stroked his fingers through Crowley's ferrous locks. "And I'm in a mind to make the most of them, if your lovely self isn't too sore from being in the saddle. If you are, I could help with that as well."  
  


Normally, Crowley would beg off, citing that he was indeed too sore from riding and would prefer to simply drink and doze. But tonight would be his last chance to be with his angel for a goodly amount of time, and he knew he'd kick himself later if he refused now. A naughty little smile curved his mouth as goosebumps rose on his arms. "I'd like that." Draining his cup, the demon kissed his partner and then stood up to amble over to the beds. (There were two, of course, but he wagered only one would get any use.) His heart was already fluttering as he imagined what the angel had in mind. "Anything in particular that you wanted to do this time?"

Crowley might have tried to hide it, but Aziraphale knew his demon well and could see the subtle stiffness in his walk. "I'd like to touch you, kiss you, and give you a nice body rub with some of that lavender lotion I brought with me. I want to make you feel wonderful." He wasn't jealous, absolutely not; he simply wanted his hands, his mouth, to be the only ones to bring his beloved pleasure, and the ones the demon would remember while he was away.

"Lavender lotion, eh? You're so prepared," the serpent chuckled, stripping off the shirt he'd only just put on and tossing it on the second bed. A body rub sounded amazing, frankly, and he was suddenly very eager to see how those strong hands felt when kneading his muscles. Climbing up, he laid out on his belly, stretching languidly before settling down and resting his head on the pillow. "This good?"

"Very nearly, but let's make things more comfortable." With a click of his fingers, the air in the room became several degrees warmer. Another gesture brought the vial of lotion to his hand. It was a mild concoction of herbs and oils and a bit of glycerin to stabilize it, but it gave off a pleasant scent of lavender and sage. "I'd hate for you to catch a chill, love of mine, because I _will_ want those bottoms off before I'm done with you."

By this point, Crowley had come to appreciate the peculiar power and the safety in Aziraphale’s new abilities (regardless of the warning bells in his head), and he hummed in appreciation of the warmth and the herbal scent. Glancing over his shoulder, he grinned at the angel. "I thought you might enjoy taking those off yourself."

"Oh, I absolutely will, in good time." Setting the vial aside, Aziraphale stroked his hand, wet with skin-warm lotion, up Crowley's back, bending to kiss one freckled shoulder blade before climbing onto the bed and putting both hands to work. "You've been so good to me when I needed you, darling, so thoughtful and attentive. I'm so very grateful, you know. I can't help but want to return that care."

Soft palms and words drifted over his skin, and the serpent gave a long, slow exhale as the stiffness in his lower back and hips began to dissipate. "I like doing nice things for you. I couldn't touch you that much, after all, so I tried to show you I cared in other ways." A smile was in his voice. "I'm glad you understood me, even when I was being a jackass about it." Another exhale left him and he slowly arched his shoulders into Aziraphale's hands. "Nmmm..."

Moving in long strokes from his partner's hips to the nape of his neck, Aziraphale sighed, "Well it's not as if I wasn't making a horse's arse of myself just as often. But we understood each other in the end, and for that I am thankful. Especially when I'm sure half the time you were just as frustrated with me." He put the heels of both hands to the back of the demon's pelvis and pushed. "I know I can be very stubborn, even in the face of reason." But he was changing, wasn't he? He was growing, becoming better... at least, he hoped so.

A shiver went through Crowley’s entire body as those palm-heels dug into his rigid lumbar muscles, and he groaned soft and low. "Aah- _sss_ tubborn and fussy and completely frustrating, yes." That admission was made freely. "And also clever, strong, fiercely loyal and protective, and unbearably kind. When you were allowed, when Heaven's grip on you wasn't so tight, I saw the beautiful heart of you, and I loved you." 

"Mmh, well, so are you. All of those things." Perhaps the demon’s strength was of will rather than body, but yes, all. "Brilliant, patient, and so full of love." Putting his weight into another upward stroke, Aziraphale bent to kiss at the nape of Crowely's neck, tasting a bitter trace of the lotion there, and on impulse, gently bit down.

Timing his breath with the pressure on his back, Crowley sighed softly as that weight seemed to chase tension and worry from his body. Ahh, this was just what his skinny corporation needed. The kisses made him smile fondly. The bite, however, made his spine tingle, as evidenced by the light jolt of his shoulders and fingers. Hm. Not too hard of a bite. It was likely a passing fancy - as a nibbler himself, he understood. _Ignore it, ignore it._

"You smell just lovely, with or without the lotion,” the angel continued, lips brushing the skin while he spoke. “And the curve of your spine is so lovely that it makes me want to leave pretty marks all over you." Spreading his palms outward over both shoulder blades, the angel's pristine fingernails raked back down, leaving faint stripes. "I know you like it when I do. Your cries are the most blissful music to my ears." Shifting back, those nails drew lines down Crowley's ribs to the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. "Knowing your song is just for me, my delectable starling, makes my heart ache. And all this beautiful, freckled skin makes my mouth water."

Another little jolt passed through the demon from the added nails, and he could feel the subtle burn of the lines on his upper back. A soft hiss slipped out when the angel dragged more lines down his back, and a faint rosy hue tinted his nape. The combination of tenderly sensual words, massage, and scratching was making him melt and squirm all at once. "Mouth-watering, huh?" he murmured, licking his suddenly dry lips. One hand moved his hair to the side, further exposing the long nape and slender shoulders. "It's all for you, angel. Help yourself."

"For me? Goodness! I feel so privileged, and what a beautiful feast you are!" Aziraphale laid kisses softly over that offered neck, and then bit down again, a little more firmly. He continued downward and pressed his lips to each of Crowley's vertebrae, and then slipped his demon's pyjama bottoms down, summoning another dollop of fragrant lotion to start massaging his lover's thighs. "Especially here. Such shapely legs, and such a fine, pert bum."

The smallest of cries came from Crowley at the second, more insistent bite, as he found himself unable to ignore it. The angel's lips caused a minor electric shock wherever they touched, until his entire spine was humming, and all of his skin was hot. When his pants were tugged down, he reflexively lifted his hips to make the transition smoother, and it became obvious to anyone that his nethers were standing at attention. It wasn't fair, really, how easily he could be undone by Aziraphale. "You going to bite me there, too?"

"Perhaps, soon,” the the angel purred, rubbing lotion onto Crowley's legs and continuing to tug on the fabric until the demon's body was entirely bare. He smoothed his hands down his beloved creature's calves and took a moment to run his thumb into the arch of each foot. "Even these are perfect." He kissed one ankle before wrapping both hands around and kneading the tendons there. 

Goodness, his calves and feet were stiffer than he'd thought! Crowley made several low, appreciative sounds as his partner's thumbs caressed his soles, toes spreading slightly. Aziraphale had also taken some lessons.

"And what sort of markings shall I give you to remember me by, little fox?"

 _Leopard's roses_ , the demon recalled. "You said... You said 'rosettes', right? Like a leopard? That sounds so wonderful, angel." he breathed, then glanced over his shoulder again as a cheeky little smile tugged at his mouth. "Marking your territory, eh?"

"Mmn, I do rather like the thought of making sure anyone who might want to lay a hand on you knows that you're mine, that someone has laid claim to your lovely self. I know it'll make your job harder, but I hate the thought of anyone touching you when I'm not there." And he dug the heels of his hands into the place where Crowley's thighs met his buttocks, thumbs slipping into the crease between. "Because you are mine, and I'll never, ever let anyone take me away from you again."

The pressure on his glutes made the demon groan softly, eyelashes fluttering. His backside had definitely suffered the most from his weeks in a saddle. "I love the idea of you marking me," he murmured, shifting to greedily push back into those hands. "To see my reflection in the mirror, or in window glass, and see those bruises..." A little shiver made goosebumps rise on his arms. "...and remember how they got there, and who gave them to me. To have humans like Simao see them and think twice about touching me so freely."

The angel purred at the thought. "And in every one, my love, my devotion." He kissed a spot just above Crowley's right hip, and then he held the demon down and sucked on that soft patch of skin until it bloomed red. "My precious one, my own." He set another red mark just above the first, pressing his teeth into the smooth side of Crowley's back.

"Ah-!" The lower part of his back was more sensitive than the upper half, and the serpent hissed when strong hands held him down and teeth left bruises on the tender skin. It hurt, it did, and it also made his temperature spike and his cock throb between his legs. Jealousy wasn't something he'd ever anticipated from Aziraphale, but he found himself taking an odd comfort in it. "Yours," he panted. "Only yours. Only want you to do this..."

"Yes." As he worked his way back up, hands gliding over muscles and bones, stroking and kneading, Aziraphale repeated his marking on the other side, before scratching twin sets of deeper lines over the demon's ribs. Kissing his way back up to the nape of Crowley's neck, he whispered, "Mine, all of you, only mine. My love, my heart, my life - my mate." The last came out a growl, and with it the angel ground his thinly-clothed erection against the upturned rump beneath him.

Being called a mate nearly made Crowley climax untouched right then and there, and he gritted his teeth, trembling as he resisted that urge. A partner, a beloved, mated for life. He would never escape his angel, and he never wanted to. "Fuck- ngh..." It wasn't enough. "Angel... again?"

"Tell me what you want, my dearest one. Tell me what your heart desires. I'll give you anything. I'll tear the world apart to give you whatever you need." He mouthed at Crowley's neck and suckled another spot at the side of his nape. This being was his, and he'd do anything to protect his mate, no matter how reckless or blasphemous.

Could he really and truly voice his wants, his needs, and not be punished for it? Perhaps it was all right, finally, because they were Safe. The gentle bites, the little poppies on his back, were good... but Crowley wanted so much more. "H- Harder," he managed to push out, and then more words rushed forth. "I'll tell you if it's too much, so please... bite me harder?"

"Of course." Aziraphale picked a spot near where he'd left a pink mark, between Crowley's neck and shoulder and set his teeth to it. Pressing down, the angel bit down until the flesh ached, hard enough to leave a subtle bruise were it not healed. However, he was still cautious of breaking the skin, not yet drawing blood.

"Hah!" The noise he made was nearly a bark, and the ones that followed were akin to whimpers. "Yeessss..." His fingers gripped the sheets, neck muscles quivering. That pain reached impossibly deeper and shook Crowley's core - indeed, his very sense of self. It was so unlike the torments of Hell. In it, he was startled to find a strange kind of solace. "...again?"

At some point in the process, between the bite and Crowley catching his breath, Aziraphale evidently willed his own trousers elsewhere, for now there was only smooth skin against the demon's back, and an insistent hardness rubbing against a lotion-slippery thigh. Gripping the slim hips under him, he ground down again, nudging his knee between his partner's. "I adore you. I love you beyond words,” the angel whispered, and then he moved a little further down that same muscle and bit again, adding another set of crescent bruises just shy of cracking the surface.

Crowley just barely registered that bare skin was rubbing on his back, but it made his heart flutter all the same. When he was nudged, the demon was prepared to spread his legs further; the bite, however, made his hips buck and a moan leave his throat. As if guided by primal instinct, he pushed back, lustily grinding his slick bottom against that thigh. "Love you," he whispered back. "More than anything. Pleasssse, love me more, angel."

"I don’t know that I could. You make me feel so very alive, so visceral. It makes me wonder, what would it be like if I could truly breed you like a mortal creature?" Aziraphale purred, kissing the marks he'd made and rocking himself against that offered rump. “Make your belly swell with some sort of unholy spawn- oh goodness, isn’t that ridiculous? What _am_ I thinking?"   
  
It was such an odd thing to hear from the angel that Crowley’s brain fumbled just to process it, drawing him partly out of his brain fog. Two creatures such as they couldn’t possibly procreate - and even if they could, Aziraphale didn’t even _like_ children in the parental sense. “I think the pheromones are getting to your head, love,” he said dryly.  
  
“That may well be. The madness to which you drive me is a blissful one indeed,” Aziraphale cooed, and then he bit down again. This time, the flat edge of his incisors split the flesh underneath, a salty hint of fluid seeping onto his tongue. That taste stirred something instinctive in him, and the angel clamped down even harder, holding on with teeth and nails as he began to rut in earnest.

Another yelp was heard as the angel drew the first blood, and Crowley glanced back at his partner with a smirk. "No helping it then," he purred back, rolling back against that straining erection. "Go on then, you insatiable beast. Take what’s yours.”

The angel reacted to that instantly, manicured nails scraping over Crowley's belly and tugging him into position, his cock slick and his lover ready to receive him with a single thought. Mere seconds later, he was pushing into the demon's eager body, and they both groaned. Starting with a slower pace, Aziraphale released the bitten skin, the taste of iron and salt on his teeth. "Hmmn. Yes, this _is_ mine." His voice was low and rough, and the next snap of his hips was far less gentle. "And I’ll fill you to the brim with me, with my love, so you never forget that." He had given himself a generous enough endowment by default, but he was toying with the idea of a miracle. "Do you want more? Should I make myself bigger for you?"

Biting the corner of his lower lip, Crowley's toes curled when that generous length dragged slowly across his prostate and then- "Uah!" The breath was pushed from him and his nails dug into the sheets. Then he blinked - bigger? Bigger than this? He felt his lower half tighten and quiver excitedly. It might hurt a little, and he might walk oddly tomorrow, but... "Yess," he groaned into the pillow. "More of everything, so all I can think of is you."

Just a bit, then. Crowley could feel the swell as the angel called upon his power and adjusted his body. The cock inside the demon gained an inch in length, and proportionate girth. And when he began to thrust, deep and slow, Aziraphale groaned at the lovely, tight grip. He felt something wild wake in him, and delivered another vicious bite over Crowley's shoulder blade.

Soft grunts and groans came from the demon as his body was stretched and filled; even with a minor adjustment, there was now constant pressure on his sweet spots, regardless of the pace. Then a jolt went through him when teeth snapped into his back, instantly darkening the skin, and he yelped loudly and felt his eyes dilate. "Haa! Fffuck yes-!" Precum was steadily dripping now, staining the sheets.

The taste of blood filled Aziraphale's mouth, infiltrating his senses, metallic, salty, sharp. He craved more and bit down again in search of it, spurred on by his lover's ecstatic cries. Words echoed in his brain, what had Crowley said? _Consume me. Make me yours._

The piston-push of his hips seemed beyond his control as that animalistic, feral thing in him took over. A bloodthirsty, hungry, and strange creature now in the angel's skin, his bites shifting from loving to violent, snarling and clawing as if his blunt, flat fingernails could rend, as if his perfect straight teeth could tear - as if he could rip the demon apart and literally eat him.

Blood pooled and trickled from the more savage bites, leaving deep crimson rivulets down the demon's creamy back. The skin was covered in leopard roses now, as Aziraphale was no longer holding back. Crowley's head was swimming, lost in a hot haze of sensation. However, the pain-pleasure balance was tilting in favor of pain with every passing moment, which gradually returned his wits; he realized, with distant alarm, that blood was dripping freely down his sides, dotting the sheets. "A-Angel," he croaked. "Haa! Angel, can you- ahn!" A shudder went through his body when that enlarged glans firmly scraped along his insides, making his hips and thighs tremble. He was close, so close... no, no, something wasn't right. "No, that’s too hard! Stop! Angel, _stop_!"

Aziraphale had let himself slip into a haze of lust and bloodthirst, and when the plaintive cries of his partner broke through it, the angel struggled to regain control. He stopped, but the damage had been done. With a whine, he pulled out and pushed himself back, shaking. His fingers were bloody, eyes unfocused, and body twitching - and the glyph on his arm stood out angrily, the dark lines pulsing with his fluttering heartbeat. No... nothing was right about this. "Oh, oh no, love - I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" And he reached out. "Let me heal you."

The demon winced slightly when his body was quite abruptly empty, both from the discomfort of the quick withdrawal and the ache of stopping right before release. All the same, he was glad Aziraphale had snapped out of... whatever just happened. Flopping onto his side, Crowley flinched when the angel reached for him with bloody fingers, then batted that hand away. "Never mind me - are _you_ alright? What happened?!"

Drawing his hands back to his breast, Aziraphale shook his head, "I don't know. You asked me to bite you, and I broke the skin, and then I was just - I wanted to _eat_ you, I was trying to- Oh my dear Lord- I-" He shuffled away from Crowley, frightened. "I hurt you." His chin trembled, eyes fearful; in all his life, he'd never been afraid of himself until that moment.

A distinct chill went down Crowley's spine at that. _Eat? As in, literally?_ He tried to think back, to remember what happened without the endorphin high, and... maybe that wasn't an exaggeration. "Shh..." He scooted over and put a soothing hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, brushing aside his own concerns in favor of soothing his wibbling partner. "I think we both just- just got a little carried away, you know? I know you didn't mean it."

"I don't _get_ carried away, Crowley, I'm an angel!" Aziraphale scooted away again, nearly to the edge of the bed, and he turned to put his legs over the side and stand up. "I was meant to be a warrior, a soldier. I was made to kill and maim and wield a flaming sword and _smite_ the enemies of Heaven... like... demons." He sniffled and wrapped his arms around his middle, bowing his back. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"I know. My dearest love, I know you'd never deliberately cause me any harm, because that's not who you are." Crowley's voice was low and calming, drawing upon centuries of practice. He shifted closer, but he didn't touch his companion, simply standing near enough to let his heat be felt on Aziraphale's back. "And I did ask for it," he added, almost as an afterthought. "And you stopped when I asked. So please don't berate yourself." A rustle of feathers was heard then, and inky wings partially manifested and came to rest on either side of Aziraphale. "Please look at me."

"I- know, I know." Aziraphale turned toward Crowley, not looking him in the eye, but no longer hiding his own face. "Are you alright? I could heal you. I know you wanted some marks, but I can still taste the blood. There must be such a mess!" In his riled-up state, he gave himself the impression that he'd done a lot more damage than he actually had. Still, he could smell the blood, could still feel the give of flesh between his teeth.

"Thank you," he murmured once the angel was facing him. Many emotions were rolling around in Crowley's head and stomach, but he was glad that Aziraphale was at least engaging with him again. "I'm fine, angel, really. It's not that bad. Look." The translucent wings vanished, and he turned around to display his back. There were three deep, bleeding bites over his right shoulder blade, as well as some lighter bites, and several shallow bruises and scratches where the angel’s nails barely broke his skin. They really did resemble the fur pattern of an exotic cat. "See? Nothing a turmeric poultice or two won't fix, and then I'll have some gorgeous rosettes."

"Would you at least let me treat them, the human way?" Aziraphale looked at the marks he'd left. That last bite looked painful - he'd dug deep, and he could see where every tooth had broken through. "I... I could at least make them close up. I didn't mean to be so rough." 

Crowley could see that Aziraphale wasn't going to let this go. "All right, you can close up any open wounds," he conceded. "As long as you leave the bruises." 

The angel nodded, but he still felt like a rabid beast, unsafe, unhinged. "Maybe I should stay somewhere else, tonight."  
  
A moment of panic at the idea of Aziraphale spending the night elsewhere made the demon snap his head around. "Absolutely not. This is our last night together for awhile, and I want you- _need_ you here with me." Especially after what just happened, he couldn't bear the thought of spending the night alone. "If- If you truly feel bad for getting a little too excited, then please... stay with me."

The angel took his companion's hand. "Oh goodness, no, I'll stay. I’m sorry, my dear, I was just frightened." Aziraphale took a slow breath. "I think maybe the-" The lost years, the place they didn't talk about, the mark they didn't acknowledge, the poison in his psyche that he knew had to come to the surface eventually "-experience I had... has had a more profound effect on me than I was ready to acknowledge."

"You might be right," the demon sighed, having settled when Aziraphale agreed to stay, resting his cheek on the angel's back. "Are you _sure_ you can't get out of this assignment, angel? I... just... I have this feeling that we shouldn't separate. That... I don't know… that being apart could be risky? There's so much that we don't understand about what happened. I know it sounds silly."

"It's not silly, but I can't defy Heaven again. Not if I want to stay on Earth. And... I think maybe going out and getting some work done will be good for me: a change of scenery, a change of pace.” Aziraphale squeezed his friend's hand in his own, and sent out a gentle healing miracle through that point of contact, to seal the deeper bites on Crowley's back. “I won't be gone long, I promise you." Again, it was a pulse of strange power: not Heavenly, no sting of grace, no glow of divinity - it was that magic that carried a flavor of Earth and growing, mortal things. It didn't feel evil, but it was not Aziraphale's own.

"All right." A little shiver went through Crowley's body as that unusual, earthy magic rippled over his skin, closing the more serious bites and stopping the bleeding. The muted throbbing on his back, though, assured him that the shallower bruises were still intact. "Thanks."  
  
When Aziraphale moved his hand back, the demon glimpsed the odd wrist symbol, and he gently caught the palm and turned it over to inspect the marking more closely. No, Crowley hadn't imagined it earlier; the shape now formed a glyph depicting a simple stylized skull inside a box, with three leaf-like shapes along the bottom. _Skulls_ were rarely signs of nice things, and the mark bothered him. "Where _did_ you get this, angel?"

"Hm? Oh, I- yes, of course.” Aziraphale sounded as if he’d only just remembered it was there. “That mark was given to me in the Underworld, so I don't forget, so I don't become ungrateful for the gift of my life. You might deem it my reward for perseverance, for surviving my trial and thus earning my freedom." He ran his fingertips over the mark and brought the glyph into even sharper clarity, the lines responding to his attention. "Because with it, I was also granted this power to protect us, to make our rooms safe."

That unsettled the demon further; if it was a reward, then why did change its form? Had that been happening every time they were Alone, and he just hadn't put the pieces together? "It doesn't hurt you, does it? It looks like it’d be painful."

"No, I usually don't feel it at all. If I use the power, I feel a mild throbbing or humming, but there's no pain. I don't know what it means, but it doesn't feel bad." Aziraphale was silent for a couple of seconds, and then added, "I don't think that place - that being, Camazotz - I don't think they're evil, no more than a fire or a tornado is evil. There is a certain price to pay for passing through such things, and I expect I'll understand it in time."  
  


Crowley had a personal distaste for anything and anyone that would put his angel through such trials and suffering, but there wasn't much to be done about it now. "I sincerely hope you're right, love. But whatever it is, we'll figure it out together." Drawing that hand closer, he tenderly pressed his mouth to the angel's inner wrist; under his lips, the mark seemed to pulse of its own accord. When Crowley pulled back, the dark lines had receded into a blueish gray color. For some reason, that comforted him.

Aziraphale made a curious sound and smiled, finding that an interesting reaction. "Yes, we will. When I'm free of my superiors' scrutiny again, we'll make time to suss it all out. We'll go to the best libraries in the world, delve into every repository of knowledge and every store of arcana, to find what we need." He put his arms delicately around Crowley. "Just let me do this, and then I’ll return to you. I'm certain there will be no problems at Catherine's court."

The serpent likewise embraced his beloved, wincing very slightly as his bruised back was touched, and nuzzled into that warm neck. For all that had changed, this lovely, calming scent of cedar and angel had remained the same. "Yeah, all right." Well, at least they had a plan. Maybe he could do a little sniffing about on his own while he waited. He yawned softly. "It's late, and the morning's starting early. Let's settle in for the night, shall we?"

"Very well." The angel finished his cup of brandy, and then got up to add wood to the fire, making sure it was properly banked. After slipping his pyjama shirt on, and his slippers off, Aziraphale flipped back the covers on one of the generous beds, looking at Crowley with an earnest expression. "Will you join me? I'll be gentle."

Likewise, the serpent pulled his own sleeping shirt and bottoms back on, after which he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders a few times. His backside still felt tender, and he smirked to himself at the idea of waddling around like a duckling because of it. "As if you'd convince me to sleep anywhere else," he snorted, clamoring onto the bed and burrowing under the quilts, with his head popping out a second later. "Hey. You." He tapped, almost jabbed, Aziraphale's chest. "I love you."

"I love you, Crowley. More than anything in this world. I'll not dally in Russia, I'll be on my way back here as soon as my mission is completed, and I _will_ send you a letter at every stop." Aziraphale lifted and kissed the demon's hand, and then his forehead. "And I shan't be happy for a moment until I'm with you again." Tucking himself around his partner to drift off, he lightly combed his fingers through that russet hair and listened to the light crackle and pop of wood-sap in the fire.

"I'll write back," Crowley murmured sleepily, humming happily at the kisses. "But you already knew that." His worries abated (for now), he gradually sank into deep slumber, lulled by the hands stroking his hair.

***

Morning came, crisp and snapping with northern winds and the last of autumn's colors, and the two awoke and dressed for the day (though not before a brief but tender denouement of their amorous activities the night before, during which they both found satisfaction.) Breakfast was delivered to their room: tea with milk and honey, creamy scrambled eggs, thick cuts of perfectly crisp back bacon, and toasted brown bread with butter and raspberry preserves. Not long after, the lady of the inn came to politely inform "Mr. Fell" that a coach had arrived with a delivery for him: a large wooden box, roughly five feet by two by a foot deep, with strips of burlap holding the lid on. Ever gracious, Aziraphale thanked their hostess, as well as asking her to thank the inn's cook, as the breakfast had been ‘sterling’. He retrieved his package and paid the courier generously, suggesting they have a meal at the inn, and then took the box back up to the room with a pleased, anticipatory expression. 

Crowley had, meanwhile, sent their dirty clothing off to be laundered (along with a generous tip) and packed up the rest of his items. His attire was similar to what he'd been wearing on the road: a deep mahogany-brown overcoat, matching vest, cravat, a shirt with ruffled sleeves, breeches, stockings, and walking shoes. He was tying his hair back with a slender black ribbon when Aziraphale returned with a... startlingly large package, and the demon blinked in surprise.  
  
"What the Heaven did you buy?!"

"Something that I will require your assistance with, my heart." The angel cheerfully began unwrapping the box, and when he finally got its lid open, there was a pleasant scent of cedar, and yet another layer of cotton muslin wrapping, which he pulled open to reveal the true subject of this delivery: one dress, a voluminous affair of taffeta and lace, replete with intricate detail. It was colored in wedgewood blue and cream satin, bordered with embroidered gold and silver fern fronds, flowers, and birds. Its low-cut front was designed to emphasize the bosom, the laced bustier to delineate the waist. 

"Oh, my." Crowley was ever the wordsmith, per usual. The dress was divine, a masterpiece of lace and stitching, made to accentuate every curve while retaining an air of genteel modesty. "That's truly a lovely bit of clothing, angel- wait, you're going to wear this?”

Aziraphale all but preened as he laid the dress across the bed. He wasn’t at all excited about the mission to Russia, but could surely appreciate the fine couture. "Madame Fell is to attend the signing of the most important document of this century and needs to dress for the part. I am to be met by an Imperial carriage when I arrive in France." In the box were a few other items: a belt with pouches on it that went under the skirts, soft undergarments, a camisole, silk stockings, a pair of very glossy blue satin shoes aglitter with tiny glass beads, and a tasteful headpiece with feathers and pearls. “I'll have an attendant on the trip to keep all this up. It's gorgeous but tedious, and to be honest, I'm not looking forward to that." He began to undress, folding the casual ensemble he wore for breakfast and packing both it and his travel clothes into the wooden box. These items, he'd have forwarded to his home in London as well, and proceed with only a single bag of needful items. 

"I can take care of getting your trunk back to London, if you like," Crowley offered, though absently, as he looked over the various items spread over the bed (and also over the angel undressing nearby).

  
As he packed the last of his masculine clothes, Aziraphale looked over his shoulder to ask, "Would you mind helping me get into the dress?"

  
"Uh, right. Of course, just tell me what you need me to do." Though Crowley had some experience with wearing ladies’ clothing, dressing someone else was another matter entirely. However, he was a quick study (and eager for any excuse to get his hands on Aziraphale.)

“Excellent. Thank you, lovely. Just a moment, and I’ll be ready to begin.” Aziraphale raised his hands, gave a little shiver, and before Crowley’s eyes, the angel filled out nicely in the hips and chest, her jaw softened just the tiniest bit, and her effort shifted into something that would fit more comfortably into the gusseted knickers. "There's some boning in the gown," she explained, sitting down to slide on the dainty white stockings. "And the hairpiece is going to be a horror to assemble on my own."

 _Lord below!_ Aziraphale had gone from a very attractive naked man to a very attractive naked woman in a matter of seconds. She was soft and lush as Venus, and Crowley felt a little fluttery as he watched her pull the delicate stockings over her legs. "Of course. Whatever you need." Clearing his throat, the demon belatedly recalled his manners and turned to the side so his partner could dress in (relative) privacy.

Tutting over her companion’s bashfulness, Aziraphale shimmied into her knickers and then the soft cotton camisole that would protect her delicate skin from the rougher seams of the gown. "My sweet, unless you worry that your passions will cause you to ravage me, I don't mind if you look."   
  
"They might, considering that you look ravishing.”

“Oh, you! Behave!” the angel laughed. The arduous ordeal of the gown itself came next. Aziraphale lifted the heavy, complicated dress with its ridiculous satin skirts, and began to climb into it from the top. Eventually, she got herself into the dress, which she was swiftly coming to think of as more of a 'situation' than a garment."I don't know how human women manage these," she muttered. "Their society grows increasingly unfair and hostile to its mothers." 

Crowley was inclined to agree. "I don't know how they _breathe_ in these, much less attend parties. The males don't have to deal with half the nonsense their other halves do." Once Aziraphale indicated that she was ready for his help, the serpent stepped forward and obliged, tugging on the criss-crossed laces gently until it was arranged on the angel's body in a way she found comfortable (if that was possible), and then pulled more firmly, gradually moving downward. Then he adjusted a few strings so they were evenly spaced, and then finished the last few laces and tied it off in a bow, tucking the loops back under the bodice for a clean look. "How's that? Too tight?"

"No, not at all. That should do perfectly." The outer bodice of the dress also required lacing, but that was a far easier job. "Thank you, dear. I can't imagine trying to manage that myself. But that's the point, isn't it? To show off how you don't have to do anything yourself?" Aziraphale laughed softly, and it sounded like little bells. "Silly things." Picking up a brush and comb, she began to work her hair up into a bun, into which she'd fix the hairpiece. "And I hope my handsome gentleman friend will escort me to the dock this morning?"

Unable to help himself, Crowley put his right hand to his chest and his left behind his back, bowing a few inches at the waist. "It would be my pleasure and honor to escort such a comely noblewoman." Aziraphale rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

There was a knock at the door then, and while the angel busied herself with the hooks and brushing her hair, Crowley attended to the young woman who returned their travel clothes, freshly washed and pressed, and then ensured that their trunks were locked, stacked, and ready for loading. A few coins were left on each pillow: a tip for the turnover maids.

Having put her hair up, Aziraphale asked Crowley to help her with the complicated hairpiece, especially all the strings of pearls and pins that needed to be assembled just so to keep them in place. She sat quite still while her companion skillfully fixed the ornament, and beamed happily when she looked in a little hand-mirror at the result. “That’s wonderful. Thank you, dearest.”  
  
Having finished packing what she was going to take with her, and getting her unneeded items bundled up and prepared for transport, Aziraphale was quite ready to get on with the voyage. Though she hated to part with Crowley, the sooner this was done, well, the sooner she could put in her leave notice and be on her way back to him. And though he was just as loath to part with Aziraphale, Crowley knew that they both had work to do (and unforgiving bosses with expectations to fulfill). The walk to the ferry docks, with Aziraphale carrying her single bag in one hand and the other linked into Crowley’s arm, was brief and bittersweet. They were both quiet, but the angel moreso. As they waited for the boat to arrive, something had gathered her thoughts into a localized storm.  
  
Noting her pensive demeanor, Crowley asked, "Everything all right, ange- er, my lady?"

"Oh, yes, dear, yes." Aziraphale smiled faintly, watching as the water appeared around a bend of the road. "I was just remembering something: a few times, you've said being Fallen wasn't so bad. Did you, er... did you mean that?"

The demon blinked, startled by the question, but then smiled ruefully. "If you carve out a place for yourself," he replied, quietly. "Then it's really not, overall. The falling was the hardest part."

After a few more long moments of quiet, the angel said, "I was thinking, if you and I were the same, we wouldn't have to hide or pretend or be away from each other." She looked as if she might tear up, her chin crinkling as it did when she was very emotional. "But to be honest, I don't think I could fall if I tried. As far as I know, not a single angel has, since before the Flood. I'd probably just be demoted again and put on prayer sorting duty for Sandalphon for a few centuries. Ugh." The wind rose and she shivered, pulling her shawl tighter. It was still relatively mild for the season, but she would need to acquire a proper winter coat soon. "I'm sure I'd go batty out of boredom."

Crowley felt an intense, tangled flare of emotion form in his stomach as Aziraphale spoke of Falling, deliberating attempting to Fall, to be closer to him. He felt... afraid for her. Flattered. Protective. Dumbfounded. It took a moment of his own pensive silence, as well as putting his coat over her shoulders for warmth, to sort out his thoughts. "I can't tell you... to try, or not to try, or if it would even work." His voice, his words, were careful. "But you _are_ right about one thing: as far as we know, no angels have fallen since before the Flood. Not since Eden.” Well, as far as _Crowley_ knew. “Just, please, angel..." He took her free hand in both of his, grasping, begging. "...if you do decide on anything, tell me before you do it. I want to be your partner, to be there with you, in whatever you decide."

"Of course, my love,” Aziraphale replied with a smile. "It had just... well, it was a thought. It will take a lot of consideration. I'm not going to rush into anything. I... I still love Her, but I'm so tired of Heaven's ... _shit._ " She lowered her voice to spit out the last word. "Because that's what it's been, lately." When they arrived at the dock, the ferry was already glittering out in the harbor, making its way back to pick up the next group of travelers. "It will be something for me to wrestle with while I'm alone over the next few months.”

"I don't blame you for that," her companion sighed, and then smiled at her. “But I'm sure you can figure out what you need in time, angel. You're clever that way." If half of what Aziraphale said, and what he could still remember, was true, then Hell and damnation was preferable to dealing with Heaven for another second. Crowley, in his deepest reaches, still loved Her, in the way that a beaten child still loves his mother. But he didn't love Her enough to blindly follow Her or accept Her judgments, not anymore.  
  
The ferry was pulling in, dropping anchor, the crew throwing mooring lines to the dock. Their time was up. His arm tightened around Aziraphale’s, similar to the squeezing in his chest. He desperately wished to embrace her, but they were in public, unprotected. They had to be careful. So instead, Crowley took her hand, pressing his mouth to the knuckles in a lingering, fervent kiss. "Safe travels to you, my lady." Yellow eyes flicked up to her over his glasses. "I love you so," he added in a whisper, before he released her hand and took a step back.

Aziraphale smiled, her eyes full of hope, longing, and sadness. "Until I see you again. Keep heart. You have mine." Then she took Crowley’s jacket from around her shoulders and returned it to him, before stepping away to join the queue of people boarding the ferry. Very soon, she would reappear along the railing up on the deck, waving as the ship began to move back out across the channel. There she would stay, watching the land recede until there was nothing else to watch, then she would embark across the European continent, amongst plenty of humans, but entirely alone.  
  


Taking advantage of the group of people waving to those departing, Crowley freely raised his arm in farewell among them and bid his beloved a safe journey from the shore. In that moment, he had to restrain a fierce impulse to jump into the English Channel and swim to the boat, but he knew he couldn't publicly disgrace Aziraphale. Once the ferry was out of sight, the demon returned to the inn, gathered his and his partner’s luggage, and sent for a carriage to London; he couldn't bear to stay there even a single night longer, not when the room was still full of her scent. Within a day, he was back at his flat: a small but elegant townhouse in the central Soho district. Right. He had work to do. 

Two days later, Crowley would discover the lacy strip of ribbon she'd slipped into his coat-pocket. It stayed in his hair, in one form or another, from that day on.

***

[ ](https://i.imgur.com/5tVy4N3.jpg)


	8. Malachite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Aziraphale suddenly vanishes without a trace, a panicked Crowley throws himself into the search for his missing love.  
> Eventually, he realizes that the curse's implications are much more dangerous than either of them anticipated.
> 
> Because it wasn't enough to trap Aziraphale in a strange underworld for years, was it?  
> No, of course not. The lord of that Hell has plans for him.
> 
> (CW: possession, mild sexual assault)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates on Sunday!
> 
> Thank you to our valiant beta/editor Joy_Shines <3
> 
> Also featuring a very sweet collage piece by Gearsmoke of a romantic letter, with a transcript beneath. :)

  
True to her word, Aziraphale sent letters every week or so, hand-written on small pieces of crisp white paper, folded in creamy envelopes, sealed with blue wax bearing the signet of a dove.  _ My starling _ , they'd all begin, followed by some description of things she'd seen on her voyage: buildings, flowers, some new animals.  _ It was remarkable! A beast the size of a carriage with horns like oak boughs upon its head and long thin legs,  _ she wrote once. _ I know that She conceived every creature’s design with a purpose, but I do wonder if this one was a jest. _ Generally sappy sentiments followed, along with a few veiled references to things they'd gotten up to when they were alone: olive oil, scratched timbers, the scent of bath lotion. These were comments that would mean very little to anyone else, but in context were filthy.

As the weeks passed and he fell into a stable routine of temptations and trickery, Aziraphale's letters were a balm upon Crowley’s soul. True to his promise, he responded to them diligently, telling her harmless tales of the innocuous things he saw about the city, while peppering in his own sentiments and sly references to talented tongues, cedar perfume, and secret caves only just uncovered. More than a few times, he'd reread the letters in private and tend to his own arousal, his head full of shared memories. 

Then, perhaps two months later, the angel’s letters began to change. The first thing he noticed was the shift in greeting: no longer was it  _ my starling,  _ but  _ my friend _ , and then just a simple  _ ‘C’ _ . Then, the contents of the letters changed as well, growing briefer and terser, reading less like the murmurs of a tender beloved and more like the reports of an indifferent coworker. Reading these impersonal, truncated notes, Crowley tried not to feel stung. Surely, there was a perfectly good reason that Aziraphale had stopped writing in the elegant and loving language she’d used earlier? Perhaps she’d run into a spot of trouble with the humans in Russia, or Heaven had become suspicious, and she had to be more careful. A familiar unease pricked at his mind, and he wished that he’d gone with her, to support her, to comfort her in the midst of whatever was troubling or frightening her. All the same, he wrote back with fondness, for he had given his word. 

Within a month, the angel’s letters had gradually transitioned from brusque to bizarre, the once neat, graceful handwriting becoming rigid and hurried. One read:  _ I cannot trust my handmaiden. She's been stealing my hair, but I don’t know what she does with it. _ Another:  _ There are so many wolves here. I'm sure some of them are people. _ And perhaps most worryingly was this:  _ I have never been so hungry. They don't know yet _ . That had been in the final letter before they’d simply stopped coming at all. The anxiety Crowley had managed to soothe came roaring back as Aziraphale's messages grew progressively more unhinged. He continued to send his own letters, repeatedly asking where she was and offering to meet her, but he received no reply. The treaty had been signed and Europe celebrated; fireworks lit up the sky, and newspapers spread the story in bold, blocky headlines. Aziraphale’s mission was over now; surely he would hear from her soon? Yet months of silence passed, and there was no word nor sign of his angel. 

Crowley unraveled over those long weeks, deeply troubled by the resounding silence. Occasionally, when he was sober enough, the demon would cast his mind outward, seeking a ripple, a whisper, of anything he could find regarding Aziraphale’s movement. Usually when he did this, he could suss out the angel’s location easily, but this time he could only pick up an unfocused sense of increasing confusion and stomach-turning distortion. All he knew was that Something Was Very Wrong, and there was nothing he could do to help. Miracling himself across a continent wasn’t an option this time; even if he didn’t have Hell on his back, he couldn’t even be sure she was still in Moscow. Unable to focus on anything but his collection of her letters and his other collection of spirits, he fluctuated between panic and drunken stupor, until he became so disgusted with himself that he couldn’t stay still a moment longer. He had to look for her, had to do  _ something _ .   
  
Making excuses that he needed to sow discord on the mainland, Crowley packed a bag and made a beeline for the angel's London flat to look for clues. Finding nothing of use there, he booked passage across the channel to France. Upon arriving, he searched everywhere he could think of: all of Aziraphale's safehouses scattered across Western Europe, all of the rendezvous spots they shared to trade information, even the fancy little restaurants and stop-overs he knew the angel patronized. No one had laid eyes on “that nice Mr. Fell” in well over six months.    
  
Disheartened and weary, Crowley made his way towards the last place he could think of: Moscow. It was a long journey and a shot in the dark, but it was the only option he had left. Upon arrival, he quickly traded coin for secrets among the lower classes and learned that Aziraphale had made quite an impression on some of the imperial family’s servants, as well as her own handmaiden. Finding that young lady (whose name was Anya) was simple enough, and a snap of his fingers convinced her to tell him everything she knew. Hands folded neatly, Anya recounted the day that she and Lady Fell had arrived in the city and attended the treaty-signing ceremony, and how distracted and erratic her mistress had been acting by the time it was over. In the end, Anya said, Lady Fell had left the post-ceremony gala early, inquiring where one might hire a southbound carriage. Anya then directed Crowley to the coachman that she’d recommended to Lady Fell, who would surely have a record of when the lady left and where she was headed. Finally feeling some hope, the demon generously rewarded Anya (needless to say, she would lead a very comfortable life). He immediately sought out said coachman, who remembered Lady Fell’s curious behavior quite well and pointed Crowley towards the Ukrainian capital of Kiev. Within a few hours, the demon had hired the very same fellow to follow Aziraphale’s trail.

When he arrived in Kiev four days later, Crowley began his networking anew. However, it was sheer luck that led him to pass by a tailor’s shop, where he noticed a very familiar dress displayed on one of the mannequins and rushed inside to inquire about it. The tailor, as it turned out, did indeed recall the arrival of a fetching older woman in expensive Russian court attire; it wasn’t really the sort of thing you forget, he said, as she was also quite disheveled and mumbling to herself constantly. Per the records, she’d traded her upscale clothing for something more utilitarian, briefly mentioned heading West.

Though grateful for the information, no one else in the city else knew of Lady Fell’s movement and Crowley found himself facing a dead end - and his own exhaustion. He’d gone down the list, checked every box, followed every lead, traveled a month solid without rest or refreshment, and his beloved was still in the wind. Autumn was quickly approaching; soon, it would be too cold and dangerous to risk travel. As such, the demon decided to rent a modest, but cozy, cottage by the Desenka River, making a lump sum payment for six months upfront, then settling in for the winter. The first few weeks in Kiev were uneventful, as he deliberately left the local humans alone (aside from some minor pranks and temptations, just to have something to put on the memos he'd send down to Hell… and the one time he “borrowed” a neighbor’s boat and explored the river). He drank an exceptional amount of a sweet liquor the townsfolk called  _ medovukha, _ after which he would sleep for days at a time. One thing remained constant, however: the lace ribbon, his token, was still lovingly tied to the tail of his braid.  _ Angel, my angel, where have you gone? Seriously, making me fret like this is bollocks. _

***

It was during the fifth week, as the days darkened earlier and flurries of snow became more common, that the demon became aware of eyes on him. The exact source of it was difficult to pinpoint, and half the time he wondered if he was imagining it. However, a mere two days later, his instincts were proven right. The sky had just barely brightened, the church bells still hanging silent, and he was sleeping fitfully on his couch when the presence of…  _ something  _ awoke him. A second later, there was a now-familiar  _ whoosh-snap _ of displacing air, and suddenly the cottage was silent inside, the sound of birds, the wind in trees, and the soft hum of human activity in the distance abruptly shut out. Crowley quickly sat up, looked around, and then warily got to his feet. Something was here, and it felt  _ wrong _ . The flavor of alien magic was even stronger than the prior encounters, and there was something different about this barrier, compared to the ones he’d gotten used to.

"Crowley, dear?"    


A lone figure stepped from the shadows near the back door, and Crowley reflexively skittered a few steps backwards. "Gah, fucking-!" Then he blinked. “... angel?”

Aziraphale had reverted to his favored presentation and was dressed in a flowing, white blouse and olive sharovary trousers, barefoot despite the cool weather, with his hair loose and unkempt around his shoulders. His eyes were dark - not simply dilated, but actually  _ dark _ : a deep, strange green, like slices of malachite. “Yes, my dear one, my starling. I’ve missed you so much, but I’m here now.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes briefly, just in case he was hallucinating. "Why are you... what..." Words were escaping him. The voice speaking to him was Aziraphale, the form was Aziraphale, yet instinct was telling him to stay far away.

The angel crossed the room, silent footsteps pushing a dreadful static weight ahead of him as he approached Crowley. "Shh, don’t worry. Everything's alright. I love you." His smile looked natural and happy, and he held his hands out, inviting the demon into his embrace. "I'm sorry I couldn't come for you sooner. You must understand: I had to evade them. They were watching me, always watching and plotting, but not anymore." Aziraphale laughed softly as, step by step, he herded his demon into a corner.

_ What? Them? _ Crowley wanted to think Aziraphale was referring to Heaven, but then flashed back to the line about "wolves being people" and thought it might be something else entirely. Those arms were outstretched, and he wanted to run into them - and he also wanted to run out of the cottage as fast as he could go. "Angel, wait, wait." He put out a hand, trying to slow the other down for a moment, so he could think. "Just, please, stop for a second. You're- You're not making any sense, and you're kind of scaring me."

Aziraphale let his arms drop, looking at his partner with an almost pitying expression. "Oh, you poor thing. Yes, it  _ has  _ been scary, hasn't it? All the teeth at our throats, the wolves at our heels. Not to worry: I've taken care of them. The traps are set, and soon they'll  _ all _ be skinned." 

“What?!” Crowley squeaked, feeling his skin crawl, even as he tried to appear calm. No, this was wrong, very wrong. The angel looked so innocent and harmless, except for those _eyes_ , and the notion that there was some sort of bruise-like marking under the thin white cotton of his shirt. He was sick; there was no other way to describe the energy coming off him. 

"I had to concentrate. I couldn’t even hear myself think. They wouldn't stop talking, yelling, the ones above,” the angel continued, as if he hadn’t heard the demon. “So I turned it off. They can't find me anymore, and I don't care. We can be together. That's all that matters."

Crowley frowned slightly. He turned it off, he said. The silence was back. He made it happen, like before. "... how did you do it, angel?" This was a question he should’ve asked months ago.

"Oh, it's quite simple. Once I thought of it, it was easy." Aziraphale held up his hand, letting the sleeve slide down to his elbow, displaying the glyph on his wrist and the spidery spread of fine, dark lines that laced his palm to his fingertips and all down his forearm. "My house in Spain, that ship’s cabin, the room at the inn, and now this house, are all spaces that I dedicated to Camazotz."

The serpent’s stomach fell down to his feet. Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Principality of the Heavenly Host, had been crossing land and sea creating tiny pockets of  _ unholy ground. _ If he wasn't terrified for the angel, he’d have laughed at the irony. "Camazotz? As in, the bat-winged wanker in the jungle, who dragged you to- to- to wherever the fuck you went, for four years?!"

"The very same. Curse him, if you like." Apparently unaware of the irony of his phrasing, Aziraphale made a dismissive gesture. "But he gave me a great gift. The trials I had to endure to earn it were difficult, yes, but I understand now. I see his generosity, his power. It is within me. I can show you, love, if you’ll let me."

"Within you - angel, have you seen yourself recently?! Your eyes? Your skin?" Crowley's calm was cracking. He’d known, hadn’t he? He’d seen the angel do it often enough to know, yet he couldn’t face it. Lord Below, he'd been so blind. "And the magic you use smells like rotting leaves! This power, whatever it is, is dangerous!"

"It's glorious,” Aziraphale countered, unsettlingly calm. “Our Mother has been absent for centuries. Heaven and Hell are full of ignorant malcontents, and the time has come for something new." The angel seethed with unnatural energy under his placid surface, crackling darkly through his aura. "This power is mine, and  _ you  _ are mine. I can give you anything you want. We can go anywhere, do anything. We will cut your ties to Hell. No more reports, no more missions, no more pointless conflict. Just you and I."

The problem here was that Crowley agreed with nearly everything Aziraphale was saying: their respective authorities were jagoffs; their jobs didn’t suit them; they lived in constant fear of punishment. However, given the angel’s current state and how his entire being was screaming at him to escape, the serpent thought that this particular road to ‘freedom’ wasn’t as great as it seemed. Then, Aziraphale moved towards him again, and a chill went down his spine as he felt a nameless power drift over him, trying to pull him in. Unconvinced, he took another step back. “Angel, please, I asked you to stop.”   
  
“There’s no stopping this, my starling,” replied the angel, who ignored him and kept moving forward. “Things are going to change for the better, and we have to change with it, if we want to be free. Come, let me show you.” His hands lifted, clearly meaning to land on Crowley’s shoulders.    
  
The demon was trapped, his pulse beating furiously in his neck.  _ Danger, danger! _ his body shrieked. So, he did the only thing he could think of: before the angel’s hands could reach him, he stepped forward and shoved Aziraphale squarely in the chest, sending him backwards a few steps. "Bless it, I said  _ stop! _ "    
  
Aziraphale didn't get angry, and he didn't try to grab at Crowley. Instead, that crackling power swept back through him, and for a moment his wings flickered into reality and spread wide in a threatening display. There were four of them, and all were that murky, jungle green. “Don’t tell me what to do.”   
  
Crowley froze, unsure of how to reply to that tone or how to react to the sight of those once-spotless wings having turned the color of pond algae. He coughed, as if doing so might shake loose the words stuck in his throat. “Look, uh… why don’t we have a seat, yeah? You look pretty tired.”

There was a pause, an intake of breath, and then those green wings faded back into the aether-space. “I would prefer the bed, dear, if you don’t mind.”

The bed? “Er, right, of course. This way.” Sure, the bed. Why not? Maybe Aziraphale needed to lay down. The demon led his partner to the tiny bedroom, where a full-size mattress on a simple wooden frame awaited them. As the angel sank onto the edge of it, Crowley stood awkwardly nearby, watching him. “Are you hungry at all, angel?”

"No." Aziraphale’s tone was decisive, as if he found the idea of food distasteful. 

That was new. Crowley looked at his companion for a long moment, surprised and yet somehow not. There was so much wrong here that he couldn’t even begin to catalogue it. “Thirsty, then? I could put the kettle on, or get us some wine? The locals have this great stuff- let me grab a bottle...” 

When Crowley moved to leave, Aziraphale sprang forward and clutched at his friend's wrist with an iron grip, eyes wide with child-like pleading. "No," he repeated, anxiety clear in his voice. "Stay with me."

His instinct to take care of his beloved flared up at those plaintive words. "All right, all right," the demon soothed, settling on the edge of the bed, hand resting over the one holding him. “I’ll stay.” Reaching up, he gently touched Aziraphale’s disheveled curls and then plucked a dry leaf from them and tossed it aside. “Goodness, you're a mess. Have you been traveling on foot this whole time?”

Aziraphale leaned against his demon’s shoulder, and then he pursed his lips, thinking. “Mostly, yes. I did take a wagon from Moscow to Kiev.” He glanced down at his bare, scuffed feet - didn’t he have boots at some point? Not that it mattered terribly. Returning his focus to Crowley, a sly little smile curved his mouth. “But you knew that, didn’t you? That’s why you’re here, waiting for me. Such a clever fox you are.” 

Crowley didn’t have the heart to tell the angel that he’d only lingered in Kiev because winter was coming, and he had nowhere better to be. “I missed you so much,” he murmured. “When you stopped writing to me, I came looking and… I couldn’t find you.” Technically, he still hadn't; the angel had found him.   
  
“You weren't meant to find me," Azirapahle replied simply, without implication. “I know it was difficult for you, my dear. But when this is done, it'll all be worth it."

“When what’s done?” Crowley looked down at his beloved, puzzled. “What was so important that you had to just... disappear like that? I was in a right state of panic, you know.”

"I had work to do,” Aziraphale said softly, letting his free hand drift over the demon’s knee and move steadily inward. “I needed to focus. There’s still so much left to do; preparing the Way isn’t easy."   


Blood was creeping into Crowley’s face in spite of himself, and he very much wanted to put this conversation aside and see what else that pawing hand might do. However, that attitude was part of what got them into this, so he pushed back his libido - and Aziraphale's hand. "Angel, wait a... stop, just stop for a second. Look, I can think, and I can fuck, but I can't do both. I need to know what in the world you're talking about. What ‘Way’? What- What have you been doing?"

“Nothing you need to worry about yet, dear. You don't need to get your hands dirty.” Undeterred, Aziraphale’s hand returned to the demon’s groin, cupping and massaging, and his voice had lowered to a purr. “I'll take care of everything.”  **  
** **  
** A soft whimper came from the demon. "A-Angel," he said, voice wavering as he tried a second time to push that warm, familiar hand away. “Please, we need to talk about this.”

Making a low, irritated sound, Aziraphale suddenly shifted and pushed the other being down, pinning him to the bed with an unnatural weight. Crowley yelped in surprise, staring up at his partner, whose eyes seemed to glitter and glow like cut emeralds. “Our God has abandoned us, Crowley,” the angel hissed, straddling the demon’s hips. “She no longer cares about Her Creation, and she fears the Others. The outcast ones must return and claim what was theirs. I am merely preparing the Way for them. Once they’ve risen, they will reward me: they will set us free. Heaven and Hell will topple, and all of us will be free." 

In a different time, a different place, the demon would be extremely aroused to see his angel behaving so boldly - oh hell, he was still aroused, but also deeply unsettled and becoming angry. "Angel, you’re talking a lot and still not making any sense. Just-" He tried, and failed, to sit up and unseat the angel. "Just get off, and-”  
  
"I intend to,” the angel crooned, grinding his rear against Crowley's lap, causing the demon to shiver.  
  
“Ngh- and- and- and we can have a drink and talk this out!” Crowley’s voice was growing progressively higher as his reason battled with his arousal. (His Effort clearly did not share his reservations and happily reacted to that friction, the blasted thing.)  


“You only think that because you don't see the bigger picture,” Aziraphale murmured, leaning in. “Honestly, it really is for the best.” 

“Then tell me what the bigger picture is-” His protest was cut off when Aziraphale bent forward and silenced him with a wet kiss. All at once, Crowley’s senses were smothered in a heavy, pervasive sensation, like slowly drowning in swamp mud; the kiss tasted of fetid waters and smelled of deep, ichorous soil. But behind that, mixed in with it, was the taste and scent of Aziraphale, and oh lord, his feckless and confused human body  _ wanted _ . Reflexively, his hands lifted and threaded into the downy curls, hips rolling upward in response.  _ No no, wait, this is bad _ , his mind hissed desperately.

_ Is it, though? Is it really?  _ the angel’s body seemed to whisper back. After all this time, to have Aziraphale in his lap, moaning into Crowley's mouth, clutching and stroking and scratching - was it really so bad? The marshy tang was still there, blending with the sweet-sharp musk of the angel's arousal, the throb of him against his lover's stomach. Every touch was a testament to lust.  _ I've missed you, I want you, please please please! _

_ I've missed you, I want you so much that my body aches for you, but-  _ But Aziraphale was not gentle, not considerate, not himself. “Angel,” Crowley gasped, pulling his face back as some semblance of conscience pricked at him enough to focus again. "We have to stop, we-  _ ahn! _ Nnh- You're not- something's not right." He planted his palms into his partner’s chest and pushed back, ignoring the pang of dismay from his groin. "I can't do it, not when you’re like this.” But there was no yield to the iron muscles under Aziraphale’s cushy exterior.   
  
“You want to, though,” Aziraphale replied, continuing to undulate his hips and rub their clothed erections together. “I can feel it; I can taste it. It’s all right, my love.” Then his hands clamped down on Crowley’s wrists and pinned them to the bed, holding him with supernatural strength.   
  
Unable to escape, panic threaded through the demon’s body and constricted around his throat like a wire. “Angel-” Aziraphale was kissing his jaw and the bare skin at the collar of his shirt, and he both desired and was repulsed by it. That putrid swamp smell drifted past his nose again and he gagged softly and squirmed. “Stop! None of this is all right, not a single bloody part of it! You’re not well! You’re- You’re sick!” 

Aziraphale went utterly still then, and the air grew heavy with the weight of a gathering storm. Then he snarled -  _ snarled  _ \- in frustration and pushed himself off of Crowley to stalk out of the bedroom and pace about in the living area, tangling his hands in his hair. Tentatively, Crowley followed after him. “Sick.  _ Sick, _ you say! You-” The angel whirled on Crowley, making the other flinch. “It is  _ not  _ sickness; it's adjustment. I'm no longer Heaven's, and neither am I Hell’s. I'm  _ His, _ and he is changing me to serve Him. It hurts right now, but all rewards worth having come with a price. You know that, demon. You  _ know  _ that!” He stood at the foot of the couch, hands balled into fists, glaring with wild eyes. “ _ He _ showed me the truth. The future that was written for mankind, for all of us, will end in fire and flame. There’s no other way; this is our only chance to escape.”

“How in the nine circles is  _ this  _ escaping?!” Crowley exclaimed, regaining his prior incredulity and anger, gesturing furiously at Aziraphale. “Look at you! Marked by something evil, seeing things, rambling nonsense, still tormented by a hell we've never heard of, and running around like a madman doing-" His breath caught. "... Aziraphale. What. Did. You. Do?"

The angel stopped pacing and stood with his shoulders sagging, looking at Crowley over his shoulder in much the same way as a toddler caught with a stolen candy. "I told you: I’m preparing the way for Lord Camazotz and the outcast ones to reclaim their domain. Don’t you see? He will save us, all of us." He wanted so badly for his companion to understand what he saw with perfect clarity.

_ Lord  _ Camazotz? "Yeah-huh, you said that. Twice now." The demon folded his arms over his chest. Aziraphale was dodging his question, which meant Crowley wasn't going to like the answer. "And how, exactly, have you been 'preparing the way'?"

A variety of expressions twisted the angel’s features, as if desperately trying to hold something back, then he twitched briefly, tilted his head, and spoke.  **“Old magic, blood magic, from the deep roots reaching back to the dawn of Creation. Older than Yahweh, older than Earth. Magic with bones and flesh, life and death.”**

The blood drained from Crowley’s face then; the freckles starkly contrasted against the white skin. It was Aziraphale's voice and yet not, for it resonated with the terrifyingly familiar rattle of tiny bones and the flutter of countless, paper-thin wings. Aziraphale wasn’t just cursed; Aziraphale was  _ possessed.  _ Then the words sunk in, and the demon scowled at the  _ thing _ speaking through his beloved's mouth. Blood magic, flesh, bones, death: his angel had been paving the way with human corpses.   
  


“You damn monster! You’ve been making him kill humans!” Crowley accused the Aspect of Camazotz, jabbing a finger at him. “How many, huh? How many people?”   
  
**“As many as we need,”** sighed the being in the angel’s body. Its tone remained passive, almost bored.  **“It’s insignificant, these human lives and human endeavors, in the grand scheme of things. This is so much more important.”** Aziraphale’s eyes had shaded dark again, that bottomless green staring into Crowley’s frightened and furious yellow. **“They were all wicked, terrible excuses for people; at least this way, they can do something noble in the end. Blood is blood, after all.** ”

“Oh, right, like that makes it so much better,” snapped Crowley. Angry tears were welling in his eyes, blurring his vision. “So it wasn’t enough that you tortured him for years, to give him nightmares and hallucinations? You had to give him a taste of peace and happiness and then snatch it all away to make him do  _ this?! _ ” 

**“I** **_rewarded_ ** **him,”** growled that inhuman voice, warping Aziraphale’s face into a scathing glare.  **“I gave him power, power that no other angel has. The fact that I left him alone for so long, letting the two of you play your absurd lovers’ game, is proof of my patience. But the time for rest is over. We** **_will_ ** **be free,** **_angelito_ ** **. You can help us, or you can step aside, but you will** **_not_ ** **interfere."**

Crowley felt like he’d be sick at any moment, helpless in the face of this entity, yet refusing to stand down. “And what if I do?”

Those malachite eyes narrowed at him, sparking with deep anger.  **“Then you will be sacrificed as well. And it shall be by this one’s hand.”** At those words, Aziraphale’s face twisted again, and he stumbled back a few steps. “Stop! Stop this!” It was the angel’s voice this time, high and desperate; he twitched again, and those murky eyes focused back on Crowley, lips drawing back over the teeth in a sneer.  **“Look how stubborn you are, glaring at me so fiercely when there’s nothing you can do. Look how you** **_try_ ** **, how you flutter around like a moth in a jar. Such a sad, pathetic little thing, you are.”**

"Get fucked, you bat-faced cunt," the demon hissed. "If even God Herself can't keep me in check, there's no bloody way I'm taking shit from you. Now get out of my angel, and out of my house!" 

The entity within Aziraphale laughed then, a hollow and chilling sound, and Aziraphale himself seized that distraction and stamped his foot down, summoning all his power and will to regain full control of his body. After a few seconds of standing stiffly, breath held, the angel felt confident enough that he had it in check, and exhaled slowly as a single droplet of dark green ooze trickled from his nostril and pooled on his lip. The angel touched his fingers to his mouth and looked at the green fluid that came away on his fingertips, and then he wobbled slightly. 

The serpent watched this bizarre battle for dominance unfold with a sort of morbid fascination, then stepped forward and caught Aziraphale by the elbow to steady him. “Whoa, easy now,” he said, voice slightly shaky, as he guided the angel to sit on the couch. Though back in control, Aziraphale was shaking and chilled, and Crowley went about wrapping him in a quilt and stoking the fire until heat filled the room. Then he sat down beside his beloved and slipped under the quilt with him, rubbing his back soothingly. Afraid or not, cursed or not, this was still his angel. 

Though he knew many questions and feelings were looming, Aziraphale still welcomed Crowley’s touch and leaned into him, allowing the warmth of cotton and fire to chase the chill from his bones. Once some semblance of normalcy returned to him, the angel peeked over at his demon. “I suppose you hate me, now that you’ve learned the truth,” he murmured regretfully. “You think I’m a monster, that what I’m doing is evil. I know you do. I could see it on your face, when He spoke to you.”    


Crowley's hands began to tremble, his heart crushed under the weight of what he'd learned. Aziraphale was in pain. Aziraphale was killing. Aziraphale was being driven mad by a heathen god. "You're not a monster," he said after a moment, voice tight. "I know you, angel, and you're not. I just can’t accept this. There has to be a way to do this that doesn’t involve so much death.”

“In the balance of things, it's only a few lives to save millions. Oh, my love, if you’d seen what I saw, you would understand.” Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s knee reassuringly. “All shall be well, darling one. I have faith.”

Crowley’s left eye visibly twitched. "Faith?! Oh, yes, bloody great, you have  _ faith _ , because I’m sure that will bring back the humans you killed,” he snapped. Getting up from the couch, removing himself from Aziraphale, the demon walked over to the fireplace and leaned against the stone fronting. “Outstanding, angel, I hope you're happy over there with your  _ faith _ ."

"Don't be petulant, Crowley," Aziraphale chided gently, as if he were talking to an unruly child, as if he were entirely unaware of how absurd the entire situation was. Then he sighed and leaned back on the couch. “I wish you'd listen, dear. There’s so much you don’t understand yet. If you come back with me, He can show you everything.”

The idea of willingly returning to that fungal lair made Crowley’s blood run cold. “Thanks, but I’m not interested in anything else he has to say. He was pretty clear about his intentions just now-” 

“Crowley-”

“-and anyways, I’d rather quit drinking than go down there again.”

The angel huffed, nearly pouting. “Honestly, you are so stubborn.”

“And you’re possessed! You’re not going anywhere near that place either, not if I have anything to say about it.”

Aziraphale waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, my love, of course I'm going back.”  _ Whether you come with me or not,  _ he seemed to say, unspoken but clear. 

The demon opened his mouth to say ‘ _ the Heaven you are!’ _ and then closed it before the words could form. It wasn't as though he could physically stop Aziraphale from leaving, and his own miracles weren’t strong enough to trap the angel inside the house. He inhaled slowly, and the exhale came out as a long, frustrated hiss. This whole affair was making him question his own sanity. 

The pair remained in silence for a moment, watching the flickering fire, before Crowley looked over at his partner and sat down beside him once more. His beloved. Lord below, he looked so tired. “Well, since you’re here, do you want to rest for a bit? You look exhausted.”

Aziraphale hummed a bit. “That does sound nice. I’ve been walking for so long.”

“Let’s get you back to bed, then. It’s pretty comfortable, even for a rental.” The demon chuckled dully.

“Will you lay down with me?”

“Like you even have to ask.”

They smiled at each other and lightly bumped their foreheads together, a whisper of affection passing between them, and then they rose and headed for the bedroom. 

It’s often a surprise how long ten to twenty paces can be: the span of a river, or a road, or the breadth of a small home. In the space of that short distance, the angel’s body went stiff, and he stopped, staring blankly at the open doorway.

Crowley stopped as well, watching his companion closely. “Everything all right, dove?” That soft face had gone tense and emotionless, but he could sense power boiling behind the mask-like expression.

Turning on his heel, the angel began to pace in front of the doorway, talking loudly. “I told you to leave me alone!” he snapped. “You wouldn’t have had anyone else! All that time, all that time, you ingrate! Oh, what can I expect? I didn’t promise you anything!” The angel was strong enough to fight, to keep the other entity from subsuming him, but it was taking all his concentration. Finally, Aziraphale took several deep breaths and wiped his mouth on his sleeve; it came away smeared with green, dark like the vomit of caught locusts. “It’s His will, His power.” he said, addressing Crowley wearily. “He’s really quite put out that I defied Him to seek you out. He wants me to resume my work.” 

"S’all right, love," replied the serpent calmly, rubbing the angel’s back gently. “Take your time.” He was still very concerned on Aziraphale’s behalf, yes, but this back-and-forth conversation wasn’t nearly as daunting now he knew what he was facing. Possession was Demonology 101, and Crowley had seen it happen plenty of times - perhaps not to an angel, but still. Crowley understood the nature of possessions, and he could handle them. Hopefully.

A few more paces took Aziraphale to the bedside, and then he cried out in pain. “No, no, no! Get back!” Putting his hands up, the angel sank down to his knees, curling on himself. “Stop! I never agreed to this! Get away from me!” Again, the angel clawed his way back from wherever it was that the Aspect tried to keep him. He was a willful being who had gotten used to having to assert himself, but each battle for dominance seemed to be making the Aspect stronger, while Aziraphale was tiring   


Beside him, Crowley fretfully hovered and wished there was more that he could do to help his angel fight Camazotz’s influence. He didn’t agree to this, he said. Of course not: not even Aziraphale at his most unhinged would consent to being possessed by a heathen god. That wasn’t part of their deal, no, but Crowley knew that Camazotz could easily bend those rules. A god needed servants, after all - capable bodies to send into the world to do his dirty work. An angel’s body was the ideal vessel.

Aziraphale attempted to stand, only to drop to the floor again. He then looked up at Crowley, gripping his demon’s sleeve and whispering plaintively, “Please, please help me. I can’t stop this for long.” He was holding on, reining back the Aspect, but he was quickly losing strength.

“I don’t- What do you want  _ me  _ to do?!” 

“I won’t- I won’t let it out. Crowley, please, do  _ something _ ! Now!”

The demon’s mind was spinning, and the wheel landed on only one viable option. Lips tightening, he put his hand on Aziraphale’s forehead and willed an enormous  _ push  _ of power through the palm and into his beloved’s body. The angel’s eyes clouded, fading to a murky swamp-water hue, and he whispered "Crowley..." before slumping over. Crowley just managed to catch him before his head hit the floor. Once he was certain his companion was unconscious, he pulled Aziraphale up onto the bed and tucked him in.    
  
At first, Aziraphale was calm, and then he grew feverish, similar to how he’d been when he first returned from the Death God's clutches. Shivering and twitching, his wings fluttered in their aetherspace like a feigning killdeer, evident only to another primordial being. He was drifting on the edge of consciousness again, the symbol on his arm seeming to pulse with his heartbeat, and Crowley gritted his teeth. The Aspect was trying to wake Aziraphale, trying to muscle its way through the demon’s magic to take control. Though he was already tired from the first attempt, he put his hand on the angel’s forehead again.  _ Just one more push, to keep the bastard down.  _ The second try was armed with an ample dose of persuasion, causing Aziraphale’s body to sink into an indefinite state of deep sleep and preventing the Aspect from rousing him for its own purposes. It was difficult to subdue an angel, and he disliked using his power for this purpose in general… but it was really all he could do to help.

After a few more hours of hissing and pacing and nearly tearing his hair out, the demon settled on a tentative plan. He found a scrap of paper and a pencil, settled himself next to his partner, and carefully copied the strange symbol on the angel’s inner wrist. (He'd seen the same glyph on stones in the jungle. It had all started there. Lord below, he was such a fool.) Crowley needed time to research, to gather information as quickly as possible, to break this hold, this... this  _ curse _ , yes, this heathen curse that was twisting his beloved into a mindless slave. He kissed Aziraphale's forehead, then ran to the library, returning thirty minutes later with an armful of books. Then, he poured himself a stiff drink and began the tedious task of research.

A day stretched into a week, then into two weeks, as the demon pored endlessly over every book the local library had on mythology, legends, world religions, curses, wards, and magics. A few tidbits revealed themselves that might be useful later, but nothing substantial; the library was simply too small. He needed more information, which meant he would have to travel. So, much to his own chagrin, he hired a nursemaid to watch over the still-asleep Aziraphale, then packed a small bag and left by carriage for Moscow. Of course, he was loath to leave the angel's side at all, but taking him along in that condition was out of the question.

The creeping entity that had seemingly gone into remission within the angel had, however, merely been hiding and watching for an opportunity. With Crowley's absence, it sensed the chance to reemerge. The demon’s magic held, effectively keeping Aziraphale from waking, but the Aspect still had enough power to affect the material world. It began by terrorizing the nurse, chasing her from the house with howling noises and thrown objects. Once she was gone, the entity could focus on unraveling Crowley’s spell. It took nearly a week to wear the magic down enough to break, and when Aziraphale roused from sleep, shaking himself awake, he found himself alone in a cold and dark cottage.    
  
The angel called out for his friend, lit the candles, started a fire - but after waiting for some hours, he felt anxiety overtake him. Where had Crowley gone? What had happened? Had Aziraphale unwittingly done something to the demon? Oh no! Oh! He had to find his friend, his love- He had to-    
  
**_Get out._ ** The voice was not his own, but calm washed over Aziraphale with these words, abruptly dousing his concerns. He stood and took a deep breath, and then, wrapping a wool blanket around his shoulders, he willed the locks on the door to open, and walked out of the cottage, leaving bare footprints in the early snow.

>   
>    
>    
>  ***  
>    
>    
>    
>  _ My Starling; _ _  
>  _ _ As I venture North, the forests shift from broad leaf to coniferous, the land from rolling grassland to mountain, and the chill of the air here makes me miss terribly the warmth of my bed. Even more so for staying at an inn where the bath offered the same soap which we used on our last evening in Spain. _ _  
>  _ _  
>  _ _ I lay in that cold and hard cot a night, with the scent of lavender on the bed-clothes, and I recalled with fondness an evening spent together, a lovely meal, and that very naughty fox burrowing into my back garden. Such clever paws it had. _ _  
>  _ _  
>  _ _ The hand-maiden who accompanies me on this trip is a sweet and excitable child, and she laces my bodice with competence, but hers are not the hands I care to have upon my gown. Every morn and every dusk she attends me, a full hour to get into this abominable costume, and nearly as long to get out again. She endures my complaints without any reply, no witty snark, no smart-tongued entendres.  _ _  
>  _ _  
>  _ _ Soon I cross the border into Poland, which will be warmer, a pleasant and green land between mountain ranges. But I still await the day when this is all behind me, and I can return to England, to where my beloved fox hunts between the hillocks, and birds cry sweetly at night. _ _  
>  _ __  
>  _ Every day, my heart’s yearning to see London again grows sharper. _ _  
>  _ _ Your Dove. _ _  
>  _ __ Leipzig, Deutschland - June 16, 1774.


	9. Power In The Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Aziraphale vanishes a second time, Crowley continues his search for find ways to locate and save his cursed angel before the clock runs out. Luckily, he finds help from a few unexpected sources. Things are only going to get worse, but at least, in the end, there will be a chance to rest.
> 
> CW: THIS IS WHERE BOTH ARCHIVE WARNINGS COME INTO PLAY, HOLD ONTO YOUR BUTTS  
> Also there's some art at the bottom (made by Gearsmoke) that might or might not give you nightmares. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late update, but we decided to make some major revisions at the last minute and it took some additional time. 
> 
> Thanks again to Joy_Shines for being our beta reader and editor. ♡

The Moscow Imperial University Library held considerably more books than the Kiev library, but very little of the type that Crowley needed. Russia had become a very progressive land, yearning for the future, for better and newer innovation and discovery, and so the library focused on modern books more than old, obscure tomes. Even after three days of intensive searching, he found no more than a handful of useful tidbits (which he jotted into his ever-growing journal). He would need to search further afield to find his answers. However, before he could do that, he had to return to Kiev, to check in on his beloved and make further arrangements toward his angel’s care while he was away for an extended period.  
  
When his carriage arrived in Kiev four days later, Crowley all but sprinted to the cottage and was dismayed to find it empty and cold - long deserted. The nursemaid was nowhere to be found (and he could only hope she was still alive), and the floor was strewn with broken crockery, cutlery, and other small housewares. 

A chill wind drew his attention to the back door standing wide open, where an inch of snow had accumulated on the floor. No tracks, no scent - the angel seemed to have vanished. Overcome with helpless frustration, he threw his bag across the room and roared at the rafters until his voice was hoarse. It had always been a possibility that Aziraphale would be missing when he returned, of course, but facing the certainty of it was maddening. 

Once he’d regained his composure, the demon grimly considered how best to adjust his plans. He understood that finding Aziraphale a second time would be impossible, as his cursed beloved would actively avoid it. The only path left to him was to continue his research, to gain as much knowledge in as short a time as possible, and try to free the angel from this foreign god’s grasp. After writing a hasty farewell note for the landlord and leaving it on the bed, the demon packed up his few belongings and began his slow, methodical perusal of every major library in Europe, starting with El Escorial in Spain.

The journey was long and laborious, spanning three months and the whole of mainland Europe. Crowley used miracles, favors, temptations, and plain old breaking-and-entering to access the rare and restricted collections of every library he visited. Mythology and folklore, potions and medicines, bindings and wards, every reference to bat gods or gods of death in general - all of these things, he meticulously cataloged in his journal (which was rapidly expanding but never seemed to run out of pages). Pieces of this bizarre cosmic puzzle were slowly falling into his hands, though not nearly fast enough for his liking. 

In his travels from one repository of information to another, Crowley was not only finding clues to answer his own questions, but also chasing the whispers of something grim and horrible happening in the world. It started as an overheard tale at a bar, a bit of gossip at a marketplace, and gradually, rumors wove themselves into the stories. There was, it was said, a sinister cult at work, luring people from their homes and using their bodies to build altars to some unspeakable evil. Witnesses described rings of stones that the hardiest men were too terrified to enter, each one with a grisly monument at its heart. 

Humans understood their own mortality, even as they railed against it, and Crowley found this commendable, even if it was futile. His conversations painted a picture of short and frightened lives. Mortal people knew that Death was always ready to take them, and it wasn't uncommon to meet it on the roads between cities, at night in an alley, hunting in the forests, or simply by choosing the wrong moment to pass behind an irritable horse. Often people simply vanished without a trace, and it was considered a sad waste of time to even look for the missing bodies. What was even worse, they said, was to not be looking for missing bodies and happen to find them like... _that_.

As rumors were one of Crowley's specialties, he found their trail easy to follow: tracking them through bars and markets, between houses, under bridges, behind the hands of rich and poor alike. Across multiple countries and peoples, the tales of stone rings and gruesome altars made his stomach turn. There were many versions of the story, of course, but the consensus was the same: something wicked this way comes. As he traced them, the rumors multiplied, and soon the human population was on edge, all of them suspicious and jumpy, ready to accuse anyone who crossed them of being in league with a bloodthirsty coven. Much of Europe was careening towards another mass witch hunt (as if they'd learned nothing from the past), and Crowley knew Aziraphale was the one holding the reins. 

Unfortunately, without the angel’s location and the necessary knowledge, there was very little the demon could do to mitigate it. All he knew was that he was running out of time. The growing anxiety and spreading legends were impossible to miss; the tension and fear in the air was becoming palpable as the months passed, with law enforcement unable to curtail the crimes nor calm their citizens. Hell, naturally, was pleased by the demon’s reports of death and chaos; they assumed that he was simply doing his job, and he didn’t bother to correct them. Heaven, on the other hand, would not be impressed. As soon as the celestials monitoring Earth investigated the growing distress and discovered their renegade sibling’s activities, they would have no choice but to act. 

And perhaps this was why, as the serpent scoured the aisles of the Laurentian Library in Florence, a lone angel appeared to him. 

When he sensed the other’s presence, Crowley was in the library’s restricted section, dragging his finger along the book spines and squinting at a scrap of parchment containing the scribbled letter/number combination for a very specific item. Perhaps he’d copied the code down incorrectly? That searching finger paused when he became aware of angelic eyes watching him; it wasn’t _his_ angel, but one like him - a Principality. Crowley turned to regard the other being, pupils narrowing very slightly, but he otherwise held himself still: the image of a creature prepared to run, or to strike, if needed. 

The aforementioned Principality stepped into the aisle, into full view. She was corporealized as a human woman of around fifty, with bronzed skin, dark brown hair, and oddly bright blue eyes; her chosen attire was modest and drab, similar to a peasant and quite unlike the pompous style of visiting Archangels. Tilting her head, she offered a benevolent smile and willed the very book Crowley sought into her hands: the Nahuatl Codex, a large, heavy tome, bound in a protective wooden case. "Come, Demon Crowley,” she said quietly. “I would have words with you." Tucking the Codex under her arm, she turned and headed for a more secluded part of the library.

Willfully denying himself the chance to snark at her, Crowley stuffed his hands in his overcoat pockets and followed her. The initial shock of seeing another angel had worn off, uneasiness and dread taking its place. However, he desperately needed that tome, which was undoubtedly why she was using it as a bargaining chip. Once they were alone, their only company the stacks of books, a low table, and a few armchairs, the strange angel took a seat at the table and placed the Codex next to her. 

Noting that the demon was still standing, she gestured to a nearby chair. “Please, sit.”

Crowley did not. 

Her expression softened slightly. “You needn’t be afraid. I am not your enemy, nor am I here to judge or hinder you.” She patted the book. “I only took this so that you have a reason to listen. When we’re done, I will give it to you.”

_Be not afraid, she says_ , the demon thought wryly. Despite her reassurance, Crowley still felt reluctant. But if he wanted that book, he’d have to play her little game. “Right, right,” he sighed as he dropped himself into the indicated chair, one leg slung over the plush arm. “You seem to know me, so I’ll skip my introduction. Who might you be?”

"I am called Rachmiel,” she replied calmly. “Guardian of the Eastern Wind Gate." 

“All right, Rachmiel. I'm here and I’m listening, so what’s this all about?”

“Before I begin, I wish to make it clear that I am not here in any official capacity. I am acting on no one’s orders but my own.” 

Well, that was… interesting. Crowley nodded.

The angel smiled then, and in her sea-blue eyes was a hint of that same mischief that often got a certain other angelic being into trouble. “I am aware of your friendship with the Principality Aziraphale - and worry not, it is no concern of mine.” She smoothed out the skirt of her plain, homespun gown and folded her hands on the table, and Crowley realized that she was just as troubled as he was. “But something has happened to him. Heaven no longer has a clear connection to him, yet we know he lives. There is something foul afoot on Earth, and I worry for his safety, for I know he is involved - I just don’t know how. But I think _you_ do, and I would only ask that you tell me whatever you can. Perhaps we may aid each other.”

Friendship, yes, that was one word for it; romantic passions aside, the angel was Crowley’s oldest and dearest friend. The spirited flicker he saw in her reminded him of Aziraphale, and though it made him ache with longing, it also offered him a small comfort. Perhaps mischief was a trait of the order. Perhaps Rachmiel was also a little... different. But that didn't mean it was safe to tell her _everything_ . Golden eyes regarded the angel over the demon’s small, tinted lenses. Weighing his words, Crowley finally said, “Something foul _is_ afoot, for sure. Haven't seen anything myself yet, but heard plenty of rumors. Lots of people dying in a gruesome way, all across the continent. The tension is so thick that I can taste it. If something isn’t done, and quickly, the humans will start purging themselves again. Another inquisition or the like would be my guess."

“Then it is as I feared,” the Principality sighed, her expression chagrined. “I have been requesting help to quell this panic before it gets out of hand, but as you know, Heaven's power isn't as it once was. There are far more humans now, and not nearly as many angels.” She waved her hand dismissively, as that was neither here nor there. “There are some who believe Aziraphale has defected. Tagriel and Cerviel are among them. As chiefs of the Guard, it is within their purview to take action.” Rachmiel lowered her tone, her sapphire gaze unwavering. “Demon Crowley, be aware. If Aziraphale does not make an accounting of himself soon, they will put out an order to reclaim him themselves.”

Crowley's stomach fell, and he could feel the color drain from his face. Having Heaven reclaim Aziraphale was the last thing either of them wanted. He didn't even want to think about what the powers-that-be would do once they saw him in his current state. No, he didn’t have to think about it; he knew the outcome. They wouldn't fix him or heal him; they'd destroy him and pretend it never happened. "It's not," he murmured, grasping at his own arms like he'd caught a chill. “It's not his fault. He's not doing any of this because he wants to. He's... something's wrong with him."

"Doing? Doing what?" The look on Rachmiel's face was pure concern. Much like Aziraphale, she cared deeply for all creatures and beings. They were very alike, like two buns made from the same cosmic dough, and as such, she felt a stronger bond to her peer than the other angels. 

The demon said nothing, but the air around him became very still again.

The angel could tell that there was something dark on the other side of her question, but she also knew she couldn’t let it go. “Please, Crowley,” she pressed, gently but firmly. “What has Aziraphale been doing?”

“I can't tell you,” came the squeezed-out reply, with the serpent's head turning to the side in a pained and fearful expression. “But it's bad. It's going to change everything for the worse, if he doesn't stop.”

Rachmiel sighed softly, tapping her nails on the table; clearly, this demon was too afraid (of her, of what he knew) to confide in her. “If you cannot tell me more than that, then there is very little I can do to help you. But I will say this, Demon Crowley: you are not as alone as you might think.” She slid the Codex over to him. “Nor are you the only demon to have an agreement of convenience with an angel. I would advise you to be more discreet, but frankly, no one in upper management considers you worth spying on. You are lucky _I_ was the one to notice, rather than someone less sympathetic.” Rising and straightening her skirt, she gave him a pointed look. “So get your angel under control, will you? For all our sakes.” 

Crowley accepted the book, holding it to his chest. That tone, that _look_ was also familiar. Was he really not alone? Was she, a Principality, really willing to help him? When she turned to leave, he straightened and rushed to his feet. “Wait- Wait a moment.” 

The angel stopped, turning to look at him. Had he decided to trust her after all? 

Biting his lip, Crowley decided to take a small gamble. “I'm not saying I can't control him. But, purely hypothetically, if one of your angel friends just happened to disappear, and they were making a conscious effort to not be found... how would you find them?"

“Heaven can still sense him, even though we cannot pinpoint his location or contact him,” Rachmiel replied thoughtfully. “He's still connected to Her-” Briefly, she nodded upward. “-and I may be able to use that to give you some direction. However, that would take a considerable amount of power, which would require an explanation to my superiors.” She looked at the demon speculatively. “But your lot has far more freedom with your miracles, yes? If you can provide me with the power to perform that miracle, then I can help you find our missing friend.” 

The demon stared at the Principality, flummoxed. What she just volunteered to do could get her into deep shite with upper management; at the very least, she could be demoted, stripped of her wings. “What on earth could you possibly have to gain from taking a risk like this?”

Rachmiel barely kept herself from rolling her eyes, but the impulse was there. “I'm not seeking to ‘gain’ anything from you. We're cooperating with each other. You should understand that concept by now." 

Her tone was pleasant and calm, so very civil, and Crowley briefly felt his hackles raise. “That still doesn’t explain why you’re willing to do this, or why you’re here at all.” 

“Before he disappeared, do you know what Aziraphale was transmitting back to Heaven?” The petite angel looked up at Crowley and smiled softly, small crinkles forming by her eyes, and it added a layer of gentleness to her demeanor that soothed the demon’s ire. “Happiness. The most intense happiness that I have felt from an angel in millennia.” She spread her hands. “I am not only Aziraphale’s friend; I am also one of the angels charged with observing the Earth and the activity of our agents upon it. Heaven might not care for Aziraphale, but we do. His happiness has given us joy in an otherwise dreary job, and we do not want to see him come to a sad end. If I am being entirely honest-” Her voice lowered to something just barely audible. “-I trust you with him, more than anyone in my chain of command.”

Hearing that his angel had been that happy during their time together made Crowley’s heart swell. So Rachmiel was coming to him and offering aid, purely from the desire to pull a friend from quicksand? A familiar nudging in his mind suggested that she might be stretching the truth, but he wasn’t so sure the untold parts were dangerous. “When should we do this? I still have-” His index fingernail tapped the Codex’s case. “-research to do. Very important research, I might add.”

“We should not delay this much longer,” Rachmiel replied. “But I understand. Meet me at the Colosseum tomorrow, after sunset. I trust that will give you enough time to find what you need?”

Apparently bossiness was also a shared Principality trait. “Right, yes, tomorrow after sunset. Until then.” Nodding to the angel, he slid back into the same armchair, put his tome on the table, flipped it open, got his journal out, and began to read. Where Rachmiel went after that, he didn’t know. She may have walked out of the library, or she might have simply evaporated into the aether. The demon’s focus now was on his work, as he now had a looming deadline and no time to waste.

The Nahuatl Codex was the most singularly useful item he'd encountered in his entire library crawl, listing in great detail the habits, culture, religions, and deities of Mesoamerican tribes. It wasn't the holy grail, but it did give him a sizable and critical piece to this puzzle. He was scribbling and sketching furiously in his journal until well into the next morning (curiously, no one seemed to notice he was there), eventually falling asleep with his face ingloriously smooshed between the final pages. 

Without fail, however, Crowley’s internal clock made sure that he was awake in time to send for a carriage to Rome. The sun had just barely set by the time he arrived at the Colosseum, and he briskly strode into the stadium (after a quick scan to make sure it wasn't a trap, because he wasn’t _that_ trusting). He followed the scent of angel, quickly finding the source at the top of the western wall.

Rachmiel was still in her peasant attire, but in the dusk-light, her eyes had a luminosity to them: the glow of a being who'd only recently come from Heaven, the shine of it still fresh on her invisible feathers. She was standing with her hands clasped behind her back, observing the setting sun. “Lovely view from up here,” she commented when Crowley joined her, nodding to the wash of purple and orange on the streaky horse-tail clouds. “I assume you have had success with your research?”

Crowley nodded. The faint glow of paradise prickled unpleasantly at his eyes and skin, but he didn't remark on that, aware that this was a risk for both of them.

“Good.” She turned slightly to face him. “I have made sure there will not be any humans about. I hope you are prepared?” 

He slid his sunglasses up to rest on the top of his head. “Prepared as I'll ever be. How do we do this??

“Ah,” said the angel, a trifle bashfully. “I cannot say I have done this before. But-!” she added hastily when Crowley aimed a withering look at her. “But I do think, if you were to channel power directly into me, I _should_ be able to use it to perform the tracking miracle.” 

_Great_ , thought Crowley, _so she's talking out of her ass and pretending it’s music_ He rubbed his temples and sighed. “So you lied.”

“I most certainly did not!” the angel exclaimed indignantly, although she flushed slightly. “I never said I knew _how_ to do this, only that I was willing to help!”

“For fuck’s sake,” he groaned. They hadn’t even started, and Crowley was already tired. “Fine, fine, just - how much do you need?” 

Rachmiel cleared her throat and considered the question. “Well… it is quite a large area to scan all at once, so I would need enough power to project my consciousness over the entire Earth.” Which was a fair amount of power, but still not as much as it had taken to teleport two physical bodies across an ocean. She offered Crowley her hand, amicable and confident, as if she had nothing to fear from the demon. “And if that doesn't work, we will try something else. Right?” 

“... Right.” Enough power to remotely view a whole planet - that was a lot, but Crowley could do it. _They_ could do it. He put his hand in hers and gripped it lightly, then frowned slightly in concentration. Energy swelled around him like an invisible sandstorm, and then he forcibly directed it to flow through their joined hands and into Rachmiel.

"Oh, my!” Rachmiel exclaimed when the power flowed through her arm, giggling. “That tickles.” She stood more firmly upright, drawing the demon's energy into herself, and her glowing aura intensified, shifting from a radiant sky blue to more of a soft indigo. “You know, I once believed this sort of thing would make an angel explode. I am glad I learned otherwise.”  
  
“Yeah, me too,” the demon said with a lopsided smile, releasing her hand. 

The angel smirked at him, her nose wrinkling, and then she inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Now, do give me a moment. I need to concentrate.” With an intense push of will, the angel redirected that energy, casting it outward like a fisherman’s net. It pulsed from her in waves, a signal that swept across cities and nations, seeking, echoing… and after several long minutes, finding.

“Oh! I see him,” she said brightly, eyes flicking open again, full of light. “It’s distorted, but I see him, and… _oh-_ ” Her expression became horrified, and her hand went to her throat. “Oh no, no, this is so much worse than I thought. Oh, Aziraphale, what have you _done?_ ” The light faded from her eyes a moment later, her face going white and pinched, and she shakily sank down on the nearest step to bury her face in her hands. “Oh, how awful, just _awful,_ Crowley. Oh, the poor thing - they are going to destroy him!”

The demon kept quiet as Rachmiel perceived the truth he couldn’t bear to tell her himself, and felt both hope and fear as she found Aziraphale and saw for herself what he’d done. He sat beside her, not touching her, but simply offering his closeness. After a long moment, when she’d calmed down enough to catch her breath, he felt safe speaking. “I think you understand now why I couldn’t tell you.” 

Wiping her eyes, Rachmiel nodded slightly. “Yes. Oh, it is just… it is a nightmare. I never imagined that he would get caught up in something like this.”

Neither had Crowley. “Did you see where he was?”

Regret crept into her face, her body language. “Somewhat, but the location was not exact. Even with all that power, he was… it was so strange, Crowley. I could see him, but it was like looking through smeared glass. But I can tell you two things for certain.” She lifted one finger. “He is in an old European city, almost exactly in the center of the continent. And-” A second finger. “-this is not just some mindless killing spree. There is a plan to this, a pattern. Find the pattern, and you will find him in the crux of it.” She gripped the demon’s hand almost frantically. “You _have_ to find him first, Crowley. If you do not- If Heaven finds him first-” 

For the first time in months, Crowley had a glimmer of real hope. Central Europe. An old city. A pattern. More important puzzle pieces. Maybe, just maybe, he could find his lost love. “I will,” he promised, squeezing her hand reassuringly. “I’ll do everything I can to find him and protect him. I swear it.”  
  
Body bowed under the weight of her newfound knowledge, struggling with a terrible burden and an even worse responsibility, Rachmiel nodded and went quiet. The pair sat next to each other for over an hour, sharing heat and company. The demon’s mind was already racing, formulating his next steps, but he was also acutely aware of his companion’s dilemma. She’d seen too much, and he could tell by her reaction that she’d feel obligated to report it. As much as it chafed at him, there was a very real possibility that he’d have to turn on her to keep her silent.

When the angel spoke again, she sounded as though she’d aged a hundred years. “Be very cautious going forward. I do not know what wickedness has taken Aziraphale, but I do know that your time to intervene is short.” Then, as if she’d read his mind, she looked at the demon with an almost vicious sincerity. “But at the very least, I will not be the one to shorten it further. Erase my memory, Crowley.”

The demon was taken aback, and it showed on his face. “You’re a Principality! I can’t just-”

“Yes, you can!” she insisted, grasping his hand a second time. “You can, and you must. You have to render me unconscious, and erase everything I’ve seen here, or I will be compelled to report it. Please, Crowley.” She chuckled ruefully. “Make it convincing, won’t you? Let me limp back home and say you ambushed me, that you were such a cunning fellow that I, fresh from Heaven, so naïve and unsuspecting, easily fell into your trap.” 

Rachmiel continued to surprise Crowley, and he was moved deeply by her unexpected kindness. “All right, all right,” he conceded. “I’ll do it. But first...” He slanted an eyebrow at her. “...I want you to tell me the _real_ reason you decided to help me.”

Color stole across the angel’s face then, eyes widening and mouth falling open in a scandalized expression. “Why, you- you cheeky thing!” 

Crowley, cheeky thing that he was, said nothing and simply arched his eyebrow higher.

This apparently agitated Rachmiel further. “Do not make that face at me! I already answered that before we even started! I hardly think you would even be here if you doubted me.”

“You did tell me the truth,” replied Crowley. “But not all of it. I showed you everything, Rachmiel, so it’s only fair for you to do the same.”

She blustered a bit before finally surrendering, glowering at him petulantly and resting her chin in her hand. “I am trying to find someone, too,” she muttered. 

Crowley blinked. “Come again?”

“ _I_ am trying to find someone, too!” she repeated in a louder, vexed tone, before another sigh cast a shadow of deep sorrow over her entire being. “I am sure you remember the First War and the Fall, so I will not ask you to revisit that. But Falling did not just mean you and the other rebels lost Her love and your place in Heaven - it was a purge. Nearly all of us lost friends we had had since Creation... and for many of us, it also meant losing our beloved ones - our mates.” She paused to take a breath, then laughed sadly. “Heaven tried to make us forget them, of course. We tried to seal over our wounds and bury our pain by telling ourselves that there was nothing to be done, that those we had lost were beyond redemption and the only thing we could do was carve them out of our hearts and memories. Some of us managed it, but, well…” A shrug. “... some of us did not. I could never find my partner after they Fell, but I never forgot them. Not for a single day.” 

Crowley listened quietly, utterly baffled by her words. In his heart, he'd known this had to be the case, that friendships and partnerships had been severed in the First War, but he hadn't truly grasped it until this moment. So much agony, so much chaos, so many hearts broken.

Clear blue eyes sought the demon’s, searching, almost pleading. “Can you understand now why I wanted to help you? Why Aziraphale’s happiness, and his life with you, is so important?”

Yes, he understood it. “It’s hope,” he murmured. “If an angel can find happiness with a demon, maybe there’s a chance for the rest of you to do the same.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes, but didn’t spill over. “Yes. I was telling the truth about Aziraphale being my dear friend, of course, but… that was the rest. It is disgraceful for an angel to have such a selfish goal, I know, but there you have it.” 

Crowley smiled a little. “I know a thing or two about selfishness. Thank you for telling me.”

Rachmiel visibly relaxed and smiled back, seeming more at ease after sharing her secret. “I would consider it a personal favor if you did not share that with anyone else,” she added cheerfully. “Considering that you truly do owe me one, and that I _will_ take it out of your hide if you do.”

Crowley laughed loudly at that, for possibly the first time in half a year. “Yes, ma’am.” Then he sobered and gave her a serious look. “But you're right: I do owe you, tremendously. So I’ll do as you ask, but I'll leave this echo in your subconscious: when this is over and everything is as it was, find me again, and I'll help you find what you lost. Consider it my thanks.” 

Then he lightly touched Rachmiel’s forehead and caught her when she slumped forward, smiling but unconscious. Erasing and rearranging her memory took mere seconds, and then he laid her down carefully, scraped his claws across the stone, and slapped her until her lip bled, for good measure. “Sorry there,” he murmured, rising and drawing his coat in closer. “But you did say to make it convincing. See you around, I hope.” And then he was gone, on his way to the nearest library. A pattern, he had to find the pattern. He needed more data. And a map.  
  


***

In the month that followed, Crowley put all of his information-gathering skills to use, scouring European bars, clubs, and newspapers for any information on the grotesque altars. Bars next to publishers, it seemed, were full of drunk and giddy journalists who were all too happy to tell him about the “scoop” they'd uncovered and planned to submit to the papers. Marketplaces were teeming with tongues all too eager to wag about the rumors of cults and ambushes and how their next-door neighbor and their friend-of-a-friend was definitely up to no good. No lead was left unfollowed, even if he suspected that it was useless.  
  
As well as knowledge, the demon had also managed to obtain[1] a map of the continent from Rome’s Ulpian Library, marking every known altar location with a fountain pen. Aziraphale had been busy in the months since his escape, as the number of shrines had increased, spreading all across Western Europe, between the Mediterranean sea and the Baltic, and from the Western Coast to the Volga. Their placement did seem random at first, but each discovery gradually proved Rachmiel right: there was a pattern. By the end of the month, the shape of a many-pointed star emerged, and at its center was Prague: a very large, very old city, swarming with the best and worst of humanity. It would be a tempting target for any great power that fed on death, with all those unwitting people packed together like cattle.  
  
He was in a carriage heading for the Crown of Bohemia that same afternoon. 

In 1776, Prague was experiencing a blossoming second renaissance of trade and culture, the city was rich with art, music, scientific inquiry, and a healthy amount of debauchery. The Jewish quarter was bringing a strong economic and educational front, and merchants from far-flung lands were flocking to the city with exotic goods. The old city was bustling, full of its fair share of wealth and poverty, happiness and sorrow, but overall was flourishing with life and advancements. 

Yet there was something sinister underneath it all, something that Crowley could feel before he even reached the city limits: _it_ was there. The creature Crowley sought (and Aziraphale, or whatever was left of him) was hiding somewhere beneath the cobbled streets, and a sickly aura rose from the ground permeating the entire area, a sense of single-minded intent that reeked of malice and death. Mercifully, not a single human soul there could sense it, nor feel the weight of it on their hearts. Of course, _everyone_ knew about the strange cult, the gruesome altars, the whispers, and the fear, but it was so distant in the buzz and hum of a thriving city. It was happening Somewhere Else, to Someone Else. Or so they thought. 

Crowley arrived around midday, when the crowds were at their peak, and the ominous aura was so foreboding that he was amazed no one seemed to notice it. His angel was there, though... or at least, some part of him still was. Another day of fact-finding led Crowley to discover that Prague was famous for its catacombs: a black maze of burial tunnels that the modern city had forgotten. That was almost certainly where Aziraphale was hiding and quite certainly not the place Crowley was going to meet him. The quarters were too close, and there was too much risk of collateral damage. No, that wouldn’t do at all. He had to think outside the box. In the end, he latched onto two helpful tidbits: That there was a tiny range of mountains in Chýnov, not far from Prague, that the humans considered holy and mostly kept away from - and that two altars had recently been constructed in the nearby cities of Tabor and in Benešov. A plan was brewing in his head as he arranged for a carriage bound for Benešov. With any luck, the entity below would completely ignore his presence. For now.

It only took a few hours for Crowley to reach Benešov, and only a few more to dig up the general location of the altar and track it down. It wasn’t too hard; the stench of death and rot was heavy in the air, and Crowley followed it to the site. He found a ring of stones covered in blood runes and bat symbols, the same glyphs they'd seen in the jungle: inside the ring, a slab of rock decorated with skulls and a ghoulish arrangement of bones and desiccated flesh standing around ten feet high. Several human corpses had been dismembered and reassembled to form a strange and complex symbol. This was Crowley's first in-person sighting, and he nearly vomited, his heart and stomach sickened. But now wasn't the time to mourn the dead, he told himself. Now was the time to do something that came naturally to a demon: sabotage.  
  
Carefully, he touched one of the painted stones; the runes on it stung him, but not enough to make him pull away. This was an important discovery: the altars constructed by proxy were not as strong as the Gate he'd encountered before. With a silent command, Hellfire sprang from his palm and blazed across the stone, turning it and the symbols on it pitch black; a second later, he felt the circle’s power crack and dissolve. Now that it was safe for him to enter the ring, he immediately crossed over to the altar, laid both hands on it, and sent the whole mangled mess up in a ball of Hellfire, holding the flames until nothing was left but a heap of ashes and scorched rock. Satisfied, he hurried back into town and hailed another coach to get him to Tabor. By daybreak, the second altar met the same fiery fate as the first, and Crowley felt a deep gratification from his work. The first phase of his plan completed, he arranged for a third coach to bring him to the Velomvice county of Chýnov.  
  
While there, he made some purchases, obtaining some uncommon items and a satchel, and found a quiet spot to make hasty preparations. He didn’t have much time (with luck, his target would already be looking for him), but there were still a few things he needed to do. One of the first was to go through the notes he’d collected from the Nahuatl Codex, to try to decipher the complex shape he’d seen at both of the Aspect’s destroyed shrines. It was, like most of the writing of the region, a compound glyph made of three words inside a simple cartouche: Path, Gate, Gods.  
  
Well, that certainly lined up with what Aziraphale had been telling him. There had been simpler shapes around the shrine as well: ‘barrier’, ‘death’, ‘fear’ - all of which had been quite effective at keeping humans away.   
  
Satisfied with that, Crowley assembled and packed his supplies, and made his way out into the rocky range. He was hoping for an open space amongst the sheer cliffs where there would be no humans to witness or be harmed - but he found something even better once he got there. And so, once again, Crowley descended into a secret cave.

  
***  
  
The being inhabiting Aziraphale’s body had largely dismissed Crowley’s presence, far too invested in smearing long rows of glyphs along the catacomb walls. _This is where the Way will open_ , it told the angel still cowering in the background of its consciousness. _Soon the seal will break, and the Outcast Ones will reemerge in their full power to take back what has been stolen from them._ _  
_  
But after the destruction of its altars, it was forced to take notice: someone was tampering with its work, and that was not something it could tolerate - no, not at all. A rising wave of unpleasantness washed outward from Prague, and this time, even the human population felt it: a creeping unease that put everyone in a bad mood, spurred arguments and fights, hastened a few murders and divorces, and generally put a gloomy pall over the city. There was an impression of something unseen lurching out of the ground, some massive and ancient beast stealing away under cover of night to hunt that which dared to challenge its purpose. 

After sniffing around its ruined altars, the creature had Crowley's scent, and it began tracking him down with terrifying prejudice. A human might have seen a disheveled older man in ragged clothing wandering the woods; his face was haunted and mad, his body filthy, but otherwise still a person. But to a demon, that mortal body was at the centre of a maelstrom of malevolent energy, a tangle of dark incorporeal tendrils sliding over the land, leaching the life from whatever growing thing it touched, leaving behind a trailing pall of sickness as it passed. Unlike the demon, this entity had no fear of the underground, and the cave it found was a welcoming place. It waded through the shallow water at the entrance and descended into the earth, following the scent of his quarry.

The sprawling cave system where Crowley had sought shelter would later be known as _Chýnovská Jeskyně_ , the shallow water at its entrance eventually tapering westward into a natural underground lake. Crowley had gone east, deeper into the bowels of the caverns, where it was dark as night, and tiny eyeless animals crawled about. In one gloved hand, he held his journal; in the other, a stick of cedar. In his pocket, several small glass vials. Over his shoulder, a satchel that looked to be quite full and heavy. 

The cavern he'd chosen was wide and arching, with a single way in and out. In the center, runes had been scraped into the sand. In the furthest corner to the left, where he would be waiting, Crowley had lit a single black candle, and its tiny flame sent eerie shadows dancing against the curved walls and stalactites. The distant sound of splashing water and the dread curling in his belly told him that he was no longer alone. Aziraphale (or whatever was piggybacking on Aziraphale's body) had taken the bait and followed him here. It wouldn’t be long now. His heart was pounding in his chest. It was coming, as he'd hoped, enraged by the desecration of its altars... and he hoped this hastily-formed plan of his was enough to buy them, and humanity, more time.

And so, Crowley knelt in the watery candlelight, and waited.

The first clear indication of the creature’s nearing approach was deliberate scraping noise, of nails slowly dragging over stone; each catch and click echoed down every chamber and tunnel, creating a hideous reverberation. Then a voice whispered into the darkness, knowing that it would be heard. “Little angellll,” it sang mockingly. “Dirrrty little angellll…” It certainly wasn’t Aziraphale's voice - or at least, not much like it. “I know what you've been doing,” that voice crooned. “Come out, little angel.” Then came the smell: the cloying scent of rot and muck, of decayed flesh and flora.

Sensitive to vibrations, Crowley felt the raking of claws echoing softly through the caverns long before anything else, and he swallowed anxiously. The voice that followed that grating sound made his blood run cold - low as it was, he could still clearly hear every word. In some distant corner of his mind, the demon reflected that it had been quite some time since anyone had called him an angel. But now wasn’t the time for that. _It_ was coming. This was happening. He had to stay calm, to stay focused. He had to ignore the trembling of his fingers and mentally rehearse the plan one more time. 

As the entity tracked the demon, a new sound began to travel through the stone passages: an eerie fluttering, the sound of beating wings in a space too small to flap them. Then the foul thing that had once been an angel crawled into view, approaching the open section where Crowley was waiting. Nothing above or below could have prepared him for the sight of his beloved: barely any part of Aziraphale was left, save the general likeness of his face. The creature facing him was nearly quadrupedal, hunched over and scratching at the walls with long, dirty claws. The angel’s once-blue eyes were lit up in sickly swamp-fire green, his lambswool curls now a murky, stained tangle, and from his back, arching up and quivering, were four wings. They were the colour of algae and mud, and his brilliant white plumage was gone completely, replaced by the angular bone and veined skin of bat's wings.   
  
And all around him, stealing breath, reaching out like the creeping edges of night itself, was death, death, _death_. 

The demon swallowed, terrified but lucid enough to remember the plan, the _plan_. This was going to be difficult; this was going to hurt. But if he didn't do it, Heaven would rain down a judgment far worse. Crowley stayed where he was, on the far left side of the cavern, kneeling by the candle, watching, waiting. No talking. When Not-Aziraphale had stepped fully inside, he pricked his thumb with a claw and smeared a line of blood across the wall beside him. 

In an instant, Mayan runes lit up in bright red, racing down the cave wall and across the sand to encircle Aziraphale; on the ceiling, a single Enochian sigil burst into white flame. A snap of his fingers caused a thick line of salt and cinnamon to drop across the pathway that Aziraphale had just crossed, its warding properties effectively locking him into the space. 

The trap had been sprung, and Crowley braced himself for the backlash; although he’d successfully caught his prey, the magic that caged the Aspect also kept him stuck in the same space with it - for now. He stood at the ready, vials of ground bay leaf and devil-pod in his hand.

With an animal-like lope, the entity in Aziraphale's skin leapt toward Crowley - intending to drag him into the circle as well, wrapping its incorporeal tendrils around the demon and pulling, sucking at him. The sound coming from the creature was nothing but a low, grinding growl, like stone on stone, bones being crushed. Its dripping claws reached out, to grab and rend as it realized it was trapped. 

Screeching in rage, the monster beat its leathery wings and stirred the foul air, blocking the exit completely with their span. Crowley would not be able to get out of the cave unless this thing were subdued somehow. And at the moment, there was nothing of the angel there, only rage and violence. A shudder of relief passed through the demon, because that response meant the trap had actually worked, and that the Codex hadn’t merely been a collection of useless scribblings. 

The second phase was complete: limit the general movement of Camazotz’s Aspect. The third phase was to bind him completely, to prevent any further harm. The satchel on Crowley's shoulder hit the sand with a thump and a jangle, and he popped open the vial of devil-pod in his hand (a ward against evil) and cast it in a wide arc towards the creature. Immediately following it was an assault of more salt and cinnamon, which would burn on contact. While the creature was reeling, he snatched a long length of gold chain from the bag, cast it out in a U-shape loop over the back of the creature’s neck, then with all his strength, forcibly dragged its head down to the ground.

This was no blind beast he’d caught; it understood its situation, even as it howled and battered the breakable human body it possessed against the boundaries of its cage, twisting and yanking back at the chain around its neck. The Aspect continued screaming, at a volume and pitch beyond human hearing. Its flailing wings swept dust up from the ground, yet did not disturb the materials of the circle binding it, kept in place as they were by the spell. Soon, however, the chamber was a tempest of wind and debris, as loose bits of rock and bone shards were sent whipping about to scrape and clatter against the stone walls until the noise of it drowned out the creature's shrieks.  
  
And while it was physically held, the tendrils of malice the Aspect manifested could still cross that boundary. The dark power grabbing at Crowley burned through his clothing, sizzling on his skin like poison, and he cried out in pain when they lashed at his forearms, black scorch marks searing into the flesh wherever it touched. Seeing its advantage, the creature seized Crowley with those tendrils and knocked the herbs from his hands, lifting the demon from the ground and throwing him with all its strength.

Crowley's back hit the stone wall and he crumpled down, coughing up blood and groaning in pain as more blood seeped from his hairline and slid down his cheek. He could tell he had a mild concussion, a few cracked ribs, a punctured lung. Nothing that would discorporate him; he could deal with his injuries later. The demon lifted a forearm, shielding his eyes from the tempest blowing rock, bone, and sand around in a frenzy. 

This was quickly spiraling out of the demon’s control; he needed to subdue this bastard and get the other cuff on before it could figure out how to break free. He sprang forward and managed to grab hold of the chain again with both hands, twisting it hard, but his physical strength was no match for Aziraphale’s, even without the addition of a foreign god’s power.  
  
_Fuck_ . Crowley winced and grimaced. This plan had started quite well, but the ending was falling apart. Get the cuffs on, break the salt and cinnamon line with the cedar stick, and get out: that had been the original strategy. But with the exit thoroughly blocked and the Aspect only becoming more enraged, he was coming to the resigned acceptance that there was only one option left... and for Aziraphale, he would do it. Steeling his will, he coiled the rest of the chain into his hand and lashed it out like a whip, striking each of those beating wings hard to knock the monster off balance. Then he sucked in a breath and launched his body into the trap circle, tackling the beast sideways and making them both hit the wall of the barrier. _Ow, ow ow, fuuuck-_ a hasty miracle latched a gold cuff at the end of the chain onto Aziraphale's nearest wrist, and he pulled it taut.

Within seconds of regaining its footing, even with its wrist caught, the entity, this seething aspect of death-before-Death, had Crowley pinned to the floor. Within the circle, the air was still and calm, the storm outside muffled, and as such, Crowley could hear his own ribs cracking further under the immense, unstoppable weight pressing down. “Little angel,” said the creature, almost pityingly. “I told you this would happen if you interfered. This was how it was always going to be.” It spread its wings again, and the candle that had been sheltered from its fury finally went out. All that remained in the darkened cavern were two glowing points of eerie green fire.

For a moment, it felt as if time had stopped, and then there was a shifting and struggling in the dirty human-shaped being that held Crowley to the ground. Aziraphale was fighting, working his way to the surface to reassert his will over his own body. Desperate, desolate, he would do anything to let Crowley go, but he couldn't stop this and he couldn't hold back the Aspect of Camazotz for long. He managed, with the last dregs of his energy, to whisper, "I'm so sorry. Don't come back." And then the darkness enfolded him again, and Aziraphale slipped back under, sinking deep into the mud of his own personal hell. Once again under the Death-God's control, the hand on the demon's chest slammed down.  
  
The pain was everywhere. The pain was everything. That force, that weight, it was impossible to move away or escape it. It was cracking his ribs, tearing Crowley’s muscles and crushing his organs. It was... it was dying. It was Death itself. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and trickled down, involuntary. Good lord below, dying was just the _worst_. Especially this way.

Then he saw Aziraphale again, the _real_ Aziraphale, those beloved blue eyes warmly glowing above him, and he heard his love’s voice whispering to him with words he couldn’t quite make out. Crowley couldn’t know if it was actually the angel, or if his failing brain was showing him what he wanted to see. He rasped a plaintive "Angel-" and then a hideous _CRACK_ echoed through the cavern, and with it an agonizing pressure that stole his breath and made blood bubble up through his nose and mouth. The creature’s claws had ripped through bone and flesh to tear out Crowley’s still-beating heart.

With the remaining seconds he had, Crowley gripped the wrist holding his beating heart and summoned the second golden cuff to bind it - with this final step, the Aspect would be significantly weakened and forced to remain within its cage. "Eat shit," he rasped, spitting blood in Death's face. Then, the light in his eyes dulled, and his body slumped into the sand.

The creature in Aziraphale's body raised the demon's heart and drank from it, drawing in the last traces of Crowley's life. It knew, because its prisoner knew, that even such a grisly death as this was merely physical, and eventually the tainted angel would return to Earth. When? Ah, that was an unknown variable. It could be months, perhaps years, before Crowley could return, unless he had a good enough excuse.

The demon's corpse soon evaporated, fading like mist back into the aether from which it had been made. The entity spent some time trying to find some weakness in the spells that bound it and the chains that held its body's wrists. However, it was useless, as Crowley’s research had been quite thorough; if anything, his sacrifice had strengthened the cuffs' determination to hold it. Eventually the Aspect of Camazotz breathed a sigh of supreme disgust and gave up on trying to escape. It knew it would be released eventually - either the spells holding it would break, or its angelic host would be consumed and it would return to its own domain. In the meantime, it receded back into Aziraphale, leaving him on the floor of the cave, to drift back to consciousness, washed up like a castaway on a dark beach. The angel was now truly and utterly alone, with only his madness for company, and he knew he belonged there. No, there was no other way it could have gone. Crowley would not return for him if the demon had any sense, and he resigned himself to remain in that lightless place until the world ended.   
  
Aziraphale did not know how little time he actually had.

***

1Steal.[return to text]

***


	10. They Call Me The Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley takes a tropical vacation in the midst of all this angst.
> 
> Just kidding. Actually he goes back to the New World to find answers, after getting a new body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is significantly more chill than the last one, but contains a lot of important plot-related stuff so take notes. ;)
> 
> More art at the bottom, made the fabulous Gearsmoke :D  
> Thanks to Joy_Shines for being our editor and beta-reader!

Awakening in Hell was never a grand time. Crowley hardly expected a feather bed and pillows, but coming to on the cold, damp, and filthy floor (and then proceeding to make it even filthier by rolling over, vomiting blood and bile[2]) had made this particular arrival even nastier than usual. Fortunately, his injuries from fighting Camazotz hadn't followed him down, even if he still felt the fading agony of his own death. (Hell was funny like that; it was almost as if they _wanted_ its denizens to suffer.)  
  
It took him mere moments to regroup - clear his head, wipe his mouth, and get to his feet. As soon as he was mobile, Crowley was staggering, and then sprinting, to Hell’s head offices. He had valuable news to report - or rather, he was writing this news up in his head even as he marched through their door. In his most emphatic and convincing tone,* he informed his superiors that an especially holy and lethal angel was on the loose in Europe, and he had been battling it. He'd nearly killed it, he said, but the bastard had gotten the better of him. Therefore, he needed a new body to finish the job, which - he reminded them - was _extremely_ dangerous and _vitally_ important, so please hurry up with that, thank you kindly[3]).

The Lord of the Flies and the Dukes of Hell were naturally quite suspicious of such a claim (they were demons - suspicion was part of the description), but the accumulating reports and rumors of unrest and carnage spreading across Europe were impossible to deny. Within a month, mostly spent in haranguing, constant pacing, and a slew of tedious paperwork, the demon Crowley was issued a new corporation and then transported back to his original base in England.

The first thing he did upon reaching his apartment was take a scalding hot shower, followed by the burning of his clothes; that rotten-egg and ammonia smell could be banished from skin and hair, but was impossible to wash out of fabric. Once he was sufficiently fresh and dressed, the second thing he did was a hasty scrying spell via a glass of red wine, which told him that Aziraphale was still exactly where he'd been left. Good - that meant the Enochian shield sigil and the Mayan trap spells were doing their job. 

The third thing he did was snap his fingers and summon his research journal from where he’d dropped it in Prague, and he lit a candle to study it by. He pulled out the scrap of paper with his drawing of the glyph on Aziraphale’s wrist, and the notes he’d made on entries in the Codex that resembled it. It was most likely the symbol of Cimi, the Icon of Death, which also represented change, the building of bridges, and those who walked between worlds. Crowley scrawled a few more comments on the page: it made sense, really, for the angel to bear the mark of one who had traveled between the lands of the living and the dead - he had crossed one bridge, and now Aziraphale was trying to build another, though on a far greater scale.

After making another bulk rental payment for his flat, Crowley booked passage on the first ship going back to Guatemala. He was out of options on this continent, so it was time to return to the one where this whole affair had begun.

  
***

On the other side of the world, in a tiny mountain town called Zaculeu, a weathered _Chilan_ named Coacoszcatl reflected on the movement of stars, the casting of seeds, and the way blood dried on the bones of a slaughtered dove, attempting to divine the workings of the world and the unraveling of time. A strange force was meddling there, the patterns told her, unsettling the balance. It was vast and ancient, and it moved silently below the surface of the water.  
  
Elsewhere, Coacoszcatl saw someone seeking her out: a being in great pain, who wandered in search of something she could offer. They would arrive at her hut soon, and she would have to decide what she was willing to give them. In any case, when that being arrived, there would be a hot drink, a bed, and other needful things of a weary traveler waiting, for a priest must always be accommodating to the earnest pilgrim at their doorstep.

When she knew they were there, Coaco got up and drew back the blanket across her doorway. She would face the stranger as an equal, this old woman who had known many years and many losses, and who no longer feared the unknown.

***

The 50-day voyage to the New World gave Crowley time to review the notes in his journal, especially the ones from the Codex, in great detail. There were things that he'd taken down almost thoughtlessly that now gave him pause and made him start piecing together a direction to head in once he arrived: References to the Day of Cimi. A path leading to the west. A village in the mountains, with a white temple dedicated to the god Kukulkan. Maybe, just maybe, he would find some answers there.

After a brief respite and restock in Cuba, Crowley found himself in the port city of Puerto Barrios. As it turned out, a great many villages and cities had temples to Kukulkan, so he determined that his best option was to purchase a mule cart and a few supplies and just strike out inland. It took a few weeks, several stops, and many awkward conversations in broken Spanish before the demon found himself deep in the western highlands of Guatemala and beside himself with weariness and frustration. But then, finally, he found it: Huehuetenango - a tiny city in the hills, with a brilliantly white temple complex visible above it. The townsfolk were wary of him (especially of his tinted glasses), but after he presented them with gifts of wine, fruits, and furs, they graciously welcomed him. When he asked about a local doctor or priest, he was directed to the abode of an old woman called Coacoszcatl.

To his surprise, it seemed she was expecting him. Night had already fallen by the time he arrived at her home: a small, square, palm-thatched hut between the town and the towering pyramids of the temple, and she was sitting outside her door, waiting for him. Cautiously, politely, Crowley greeted the priest in Spanish.

“ _Bienvenidos, hermano estrella [4]_,” the old woman said, her Spanish lilting and accented. It was an odd thing to call him, she knew, but the spirits she’d conferred with told her this was his name, and she trusted them. “ _Por favor, entra y descansas junto al fuego [4]._” She stepped back, ushering the tall, strange man into her home.

The priest’s modest dwelling was cluttered but organized, crowded with baskets and bundles, and the flat ceiling was only just high enough to let Crowley stand up straight. A fire in the middle of the earthen floor heated clay pots of various liquids, as well as the home itself. There were a pair of chairs arranged near the hearth (stumps, really, topped with reed-wicker cushions), which the priest was gesturing toward. Once he was seated, the woman poured something from one of the simmering vessels into a wooden cup and pushed that into Crowley's hands. “Are you hungry?” she asked, this time in thick English. Her tone was gentle, amicable, but it had the businesslike edge of a doctor with a patient. Tending to this man, helping him, was a duty, and while she did not begrudge him her hospitality, she knew better than to underestimate him.

The cooler mountainous climate in Guatemala was mild for the average duck, but Crowley was not average; he welcomed the heat of her fire, sitting on the cushioned stump and warming his hands. _Star brother,_ she'd called him, without knowing him from Adam. This woman was clearly not a typical human, nor someone to be trifled with. At her offer of food, he shook his head; however, not wanting to be rude, he did accept a hot drink. It was a pleasant, restorative broth - a bit salty, tasting of starchy vegetables and savory herbs.

There was a period of silence between them as the demon recovered from his journey and pondered how to proceed. Well, he'd come to see her, so he supposed he would have to start the conversation. “Please, I need your help,” he began, fidgeting with the clay cup. “A dear friend of mine has been cursed, and he’s in great danger. Everyone is, really.” That's right: it wasn't just Aziraphale’s life at stake here, even if that was the part that concerned Crowley the most. “I was looking for ways to save him and found a book that pointed me to this place. I don’t know why, exactly, but… time is running out for him, and I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Caoco sat down and poured herself a cup of the same drink; holding it between her hands and inhaling the steam appreciatively, she watched Crowley quietly and considered his words. This pilgrim, this otherworldly being in a man’s form, was so lost and desperate that she could feel the weight of it on her very soul. After a moment, she said, “There are not many who could find this village just from a special book, or who would even try to find it at all. I would say that luck is on your side, but we both know better.” She sipped from her cup, watching the man-shaped entity sitting across from her. The priest's dark eyes, a brown so rich they resembled wine, tracked Crowley's expression over the cup's rim. “I know what you are, after all." 

The demon was quiet, taking in her words, and then slid his sunglasses off and set them aside as a show of good faith. No point in hiding his eyes if she'd already seen what he was. 

Very slightly, Caoco smiled. Yes, that was much better. She sipped from her cup again. “The one who cursed your friend is angry because he’s been summoned against His will. This is the fault of _your_ god, the lying god who sends people to interfere where they shouldn't.” 

Distantly, Crowley remembered the bat-god saying something similar: how they had disturbed him and brought the word of one not welcome. “She is _not_ my god,” he growled. “Not for many long years.” Then his tone, and his face, softened, eyes on the fire rather than the priest. "But She _is_ my friend's. It wasn't-” His fault? Aziraphale _had_ been on watch when the missionary was taken. No, even so, the angel wouldn’t have been there if not for orders from on high. “It wasn't something he deserved. He's hurting so much and being used and... I'm afraid for him. If Camazotz doesn't destroy him, then the other angels will, if I can't-" He felt the old panic and despair creeping back up on him again and exhaled shakily to calm down. “Please, can you help me?”

“Yes, yes,” Caoco replied mildly, drinking the rest of her broth. “I must work now. I will tell you things, and you will listen, yes?” She didn't wait for an answer, getting up to bustle about the pots and baskets, finding the things she needed: herbs, feathers, a small clay vessel. Bringing these back to the fire, she ladled some of the brew they’d been drinking into the vessel and began to crumble the herbs into it. “So. You may deny it, but you and your friend are both children of the god of this cycle. In the past, our gods would teach us about the many cycles of creation and creators: not only of the present one, but the ones before and the ones to come. The cycles have an order, you see, and each god has a turn to create.” She stirred the vessel's contents with a golden rod, then nudged it into the coals at the edge of the fireplace to simmer. “But the order has been upset. Big boats arrived from across the ocean, and strangers came with stories of their god’s power. They know nothing of anything before, only of this dishonorable god that is ashamed of Her past and erases it to keep Her followers believing She is perfect.” Satisfied with the state of the brew, she then selected four long, iridescent green feathers, burning them and adding their ashes to the mix. “What exactly She’s ashamed of, no one really knows, and She will destroy everything to keep it that way.”

Crowley sat on his stump, watching Caoco make her strange concoction. He didn't ask what it was; she would tell him, when she was ready. His head ached as he struggled to understand what he was hearing, as it was severely contradictory to everything he once knew. The more Caoco spoke, the deeper the furrows between his brows became. “Some of what you say makes sense,” he murmured, after she’d paused for a moment. “But most of it sounds like a fairy tale, like- like a myth invented to explain things that people couldn’t understand at the time.” Then he thought of Camazotz’s lair, of the webbed symbol on Aziraphale’s wrist, and of bone-chilling malachite eyes, and he swallowed. “But… I could be wrong.” Suddenly, the demon felt very cold and very small, and he curled in to soak in more of the fire's warmth. His hair, now down to his mid-back and tied into a crimson braid, fell over his shoulder, and he gently rubbed the ribbon (his angel’s token, now worn and soft) between his fingers. 

The priest hummed softly but sympathetically; to this lost creature, who had been taught nothing, her story _would_ sound like… well, like a story. Giving the brew a final stir with her gold rod, she fished the little vessel from the embers, cradling it in a swatch of cloth. “Unfortunately, I can’t help your friend. But I know who can. Walk with me.” Rising, the old woman left the hut, clearly expecting Crowley to follow her.

Crowley blinked at her in surprise, but followed without complaint. The priest led him across the broad plaza toward the main building in the complex. The white temple, elegant and starkly symmetrical, rose up before them, flanked by two large stone statues of coiled feathered serpents - their design was vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen it somewhere before. Once they came to the bottom of the great temple's steps, Caoco presented Crowley with the warm little vessel. “Drink this,” she told him. “And go inside. Soon, you will meet the Father of Wind, and he will explain everything you wish to know.”

The demon blinked. “I’m sorry, who?”

“Drink,” she insisted gently but firmly, pressing the cup into his hands.

Crowley frowned at the strange brew, giving it a hesitant sniff. The Father of Wind? There’d been a detailed index of gods and goddesses in the Codex, and none had mentioned that name. All the same, he did as he was bade and drank the mixture - it was floral and bitter, and he couldn't say he enjoyed it. When he was finished, he returned the cup and bowed his head slightly. “Thank you, for everything.”

The priest nodded and gestured upward again, and the demon began his way up the long stone staircase. At the top was a box-like building with two pillars at the entrance; after taking a deep breath, he stepped inside. There were oil lamps waiting to be lit on either side of the main entrance, and with a click of fingers, they leapt into flames. The interior portion was dim and quiet, with slanting rays of moonlight spilling in through the wide entry arches. It wasn’t a huge chamber, perhaps forty feet by twenty, with a low, narrow table at one end, a small altar at the other, and a large stone stele in the center. 

The stele itself was perhaps eight feet tall, featuring a more detailed carving of the same feathered snake deity he’d seen in the plaza, and he walked around it twice to see both sides. At the base, he noted the presence of offerings: fruit, cornbread, obsidian knives, clay vessels, gold ornaments, and carved beads. The food was still fresh, indicating that someone was clearing away the old and replacing it regularly. The townspeople clearly revered serpents, so it was hardly a wonder that their temples should feature such a beast - naturally, Crowley approved. 

The only other furnishing in the chamber was a wooden bench directly opposite the stele, which one could sit on to study the carving. After pacing from one end of the room to the other, Crowley finally settled onto the bench, putting his coat down next to him and idly tapping his fingers on his knee. The priest said that he would meet someone here, but at the moment he was entirely alone; after ten minutes or so of silence, the demon was starting to think he was being pranked. Or maybe there was a step he’d missed? 

However, when he stood up again for another round of pacing, the floor seemed to sway slightly under Crowley’s feet, and he put his hand against the stele to steady himself with a soft “whoop” - though he immediately jerked that hand away when the stone seemed to crawl subtly under his palm. The pillars along the walls, he noted, were also looking a little... wobbly. Belatedly, he wondered what exactly was in that potion, but he knew it was far too late to ask the priest now. Huffing, he resigned himself to whatever was next and hobbled back to the bench to lay down, putting his head on his folded jacket. Time passed slowly - maybe an hour, maybe less. The walls of the temple gradually became liquid and ripply, and the temperature had also increased to the point that sweat was beading on the demon’s forehead and sliding down his neck. 

Crowley had a notion that something weird was happening when the moon peeked through the temple's doorway and giggled at him, her light shifting into a plethora of colours, opalescent with amusement.  
  
Crowley was _absolutely certain_ that something weird was happening when the eyes of the feathered snake carving shifted, becoming luminous, and it began talking to him. “Hello, child. I expected you sooner,” it said, in a language that Crowley did not know, yet understood with perfect clarity. Its voice was like distant thunder, rumbling yet comforting. 

Although he’d never admit it if asked, Crowley did lose his composure for a moment. Which is to say, he startled with a squeak and fell backwards off the bench- "Ow, fuckin’ heaven!" -and then sat up to stare from behind said bench at the speaking statue, or spirit, or whatever it was.  
  
The Father of Wind, also known as Kukulkan, unwound himself from the stone tablet and took a moment to allow the demon to process what was happening, hovering translucent and luminous with a mildly amused expression. When Crowley had recovered, Kukulkan smiled and said, “Let me make this easier for you.” Then the long, glowing form of the snake-god sank down and became a beautiful, naked young man with golden skin, long and lustrous green feathers for hair, and eyes like polished emeralds; though he was shorter than Crowley like this, power still radiated from him. In his heightened state, the demon was not above admitting that his stomach fluttered slightly in appreciation.  
  
“What I have to tell you is important,” said the god. “I need to know you will listen. Can you, little serpent?”  
  
Unable to form coherent words just then, Crowley simply nodded.

Accepting that, the glowing god paused for a moment, closed his eyes, then opened them again to begin. "Yahweh has broken faith with us. She was impatient, and she betrayed us. We were willing to let Her have this cycle and rest until the next, but She will not even let us have that. We fear She is ... not exactly sane, and an insane god places all creations, all of existence in peril."

"Preaching to the choir on that one," Crowley muttered, after hearing what was spoken. "Er, your... lordship? Sir?" He had no idea what honorifics applied to other gods, seeing how the concept of there _being_ other gods was new to him. "I'm guessing that's why Camazotz is all riled up, but... what can be done? How can I... what can I do?" Before a magnificent feathered serpent god, sweaty and reeling, Crowley felt like nothing at all. "I'm just a... a dirty angel."

"You are a creature between worlds, child," Kukulkan replied gently, placing a hand on the demon’s shoulder. It was weightless, incorporeal - barely a hum of warmth. “Your potential is so much greater than ours. Our stories are set in the grooves of this cycle, but you can step outside the lines, choose your own destiny. Allow me to explain." He sat on the bench next to the fallen angel, as if he were anything less than a radiant cosmic force, and with a gesture, spread a veil of soft, warm darkness across the open space in front of them - a screen upon which images began to play.  
  
"In the beginning of every cycle, there is One.” Kukulkan said, and a sphere of omni-spectral light appeared in the dark span. “Yahweh has been claiming that She is this One, but she is merely a facet - as I am a facet, as Odin and Isis and Tonatiuh are facets. We were once a single being, the Thought before the Creation. And in each cycle, the One becomes the Many.” The sphere radiated outward in complex, fractal branches, and then broke apart into a swarm of smaller sections. The fragments became miniature versions of the first sphere, each with slightly different colours and branch patterns, all of them spinning and dancing around each other in the void. Crowley watched with rapt focus, the visions before him so vivid and multi-dimensional, almost real enough to touch.

“And then, in time, the Many become One again, Creation reverts to concept, and the next cycle begins." This too, played out, although when the One began to branch out again, Kukulkan paused the scene to make sure Crowley was following him. In time, however much time was needed, the demon nodded, and Kukulkan resumed the story. “In each Cycle, a facet is chosen to Create the world again.” The individual pieces began to swirl around again, with one glowing brightly in the center. Together, they generated a bubble of potential that swiftly expanded outward, forming the newborn Universe: the blank canvas upon which the young god would paint reality. “Yahweh is the creator god of this cycle, and Her ideas for it went beyond what was reasonable. Though She insists otherwise, we are limited and our power has boundaries. But She tried to cheat, to break out of Her role.” 

The imagery shifted, showing a single fractal being, glowing a brilliant opalescent gold. This was Crowley’s Maker, his Divine Mother, before Creation. He watched in fascination as Yahweh began to tear branches from Her own form, granting each one independent life and will. These pieces shifted in colour and took on auras of their own, and they fluttered joyfully around their Mother. One of them was vibrant green, and the demon felt a trickle of familiarity. Had he been more cognizant, he might’ve lingered on that feeling, but there was still so much more to learn.   
  
“These were the first Angels,” Kukulkan told the demon, motioning to the frolicking tendrils. “We aren’t meant to make such powerful beings as these, so She had to make them from Herself, Her own life-force. At first it was only a few, some little helpers to assist in making Her Universe, and we thought that was clever. But She kept making them. So many of them.” Soon, the depiction of the god before them was duller, full of holes, weakened by Her obsession with making beings who could wield even a small part of Her creative power.  
  
"Yahweh is impulsive and greedy," the serpent-god went on. “She tried to create servants who would love Her, yet She has remained lonely, for forced adoration is not real. Only we, her siblings, can give Her the uncoerced love of an equal. So, She decided She wanted to become One with us again, against our will and before it was time. To do this, She began to claim the other Facets, consuming those who were not strong enough or smart enough to escape Her and banishing the rest.” The vision showed Crowley this, too. The depiction of Yahweh attacking and absorbing another god was stylized - there was no gore, no blood or physical suffering. The light simply faded from the tendrils of the claimed facet as they were consumed, and Yahweh grew brighter, larger, some of her gaps filling in. Still, it was horrific, and the demon was briefly overcome with nausea and nearly vomited, clutching at his mouth and chest.   
  
Seeing that distress, Kukulkan waved again, and the temple interior faded back into view. “Here, in the land She has not yet conquered, we have remained hidden, withdrawn to our own realms. But She knows we are here, and She wants to spread Her faith so that She can find us, to consume our power as well. All we wish is to be allowed to rest until it is time to return to the dream and begin again. And, as the lord of this land's dead, Camazotz has far more to lose if She claims him, than most of us do."

The serpent-demon sat there, quietly, listening, appearing calm but actually far from it. There was... so much he hadn't known. Everything was more vast, spanning across eons and lightyears of time and space and thought, than he'd ever imagined. Part of him rejoiced and wanted to shout praises to the sky, because so many answers to the questions he'd been punished for asking had just fallen right into his lap. So many things that seemed nonsensical, pointless, or cruel regarding his god, the angels, and the world now glimmered in a new light of reason. Part of him was angry, no, _furious_ at his thoughtless Mother for betraying the Many and subjecting Her children to violence and suffering for Her own gain. He thought of the Great Flood. He thought of the plagues of Egypt and England. (What else had been hidden? What was coming next? What had come before?)

But most of all, Crowley felt deep sorrow and trepidation. Some of Aziraphale's ramblings made sense now. If it were anyone else, Crowley would understand the reason why Camazotz lashed out, seizing a vessel to bring an end to Yahweh's tyrannical cycle. If it were anyone else, Crowley would leap at the chance to set things right and reinvent the world for the better. But it wasn't anyone else; it was his beloved, alone, suffering, mad, so he paused. When the Father of Wind was finished speaking, the demon leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands, looking deeply troubled. He was dripping with sweat and couldn't quite see straight, but he understood these words without issue.

"I hear you, I do... um, sir," he said quietly, after a long moment. "If what you say is true, and I believe it is, then what can be done now? Yahweh is already moving, sending the missionaries. They won't stop; the churches catch them at young ages and groom them for it. And my..." His friend? It seemed useless to mince his words around a god, and this one, he could tell, was far kinder than Yahweh. "...my partner was cursed by Camazotz and is being used as his proxy in Europe. He's been making sacrifices and altars, and he's... he's falling apart." The demon's hands were shaking. "He's going to die, by one god or another, and- and I know now that maybe the altars were a good thing, even if they were disgusting, but what can I do? It's so much bigger than me."

Kukulkan stood up and turned to face Crowley. There was no impatience, no harsh judgement in this being; he loved without condition, without expectation of worship or reciprocation, and that love suffused the entirety of the temple. "Help him rest, child. Help us all rest. I turn to you to help us break Yahweh's grip on the world. She's too powerful for us to fight. Even if Camazotz returns to Earth in full power, She will only claim him, too." His thunderstorm voice was sad and tired. "My people are under attack, despite my teachings, and the kindest thing that we can do now is give the humans doubt. Not just in Yahwen, but in all gods, in all things not of the physical world. You must spread disbelief and skepticism, and weaken Her hold. Stop Her from sowing Her faith into all of humankind, and that will be enough for your part. Give me your word, and I will give you what you need."

Crowley looked up at the Father of Wind's face, golden eyes searching those emeralds, and felt a flicker of hope for the first time in these long months. "So, you're asking me to deliberately convince humanity that Yahweh and the rest of you don't exist, so She becomes too weak to harm anyone else... before the next cycle begins, and everything starts over. You want me to lie, to save everyone." He was repeating it, rephrased, to be sure he was understanding, because it seemed too simple. Asking potent questions and spreading doubt was wired into his DNA. He would become an anti-missionary - a skeptic, a persistent thorn in the side of zealots, and an inspiration for generations of human authors and speakers to come. His expression shifted subtly, a twinkle in his eye, the faintest curve of mouth. Oh, yes, he could do that just fine. "Nothing would give me more pleasure. You have my word."

"Yes, I do." The god smiled, and he gestured toward the door. "When you wake, seek my mouth. Within, there is an amulet. I have placed in it my promise, and so long as you wear it, the aspect of Camazotz will remain subdued. It will have no power in your presence. However, it is Camazotz you must ultimately appease, for your friend's soul still remains tethered within the Mitnal - that is, his underworld. I give you what blessings I can, but be cautious: they are not gifts to a child of Yahweh, no matter your condemnation of Her. But you are safe here, child, you can rest." Bending, the vision of Kukulkan pressed his mouth to Crowley's forehead and then faded, leaving the demon to the soporific effects of the herbal drink and the cold, delirious moon.

"Wait-" But the apparition was gone. Crowley regarded the stele, then bowed his head. "Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you." He resolved, then and there, to leave wine and food as an offering, as he had learned was the custom. There were still many difficult tasks ahead of him, not the least of which would be finding and appeasing a vengeful death god, thus preventing Aziraphale from being dragged back Down Below (which he now knew was called "the Mitnal"). That was all right. He'd made a promise. 

As nice as it would have been to sleep off the drug and deal with things in the morning, Crowley couldn’t bear to waste time. With a bit of willpower, the demon forced the potion from his system (returning it to the priest's little pot) and then stood at the entryway, pausing to lean against one of the pillars as the haze cleared from his mind and the world returned to its usual colors and dimensions. _Phew, that's powerful stuff!_

Outside, the sky was clear, and the Milky Way stretched like a gossamer ribbon across the open expanse offered by the temple plaza. Kukulkan and the rest of his kind were hiding somewhere out there, trying to protect their people at the risk of their own existence, and the demon wondered if his Mother had ever cared about her own people like that. Steeling himself, Crowley hurried back down the steps and began walking back to Caoco's hut, seeking the location of Kukulkan's mouth.

Luckily, he didn’t even need to go that far, as the "mouth" turned out to be in a fairly obvious place: one of the stone statues of a coiled feathered serpent with an open maw, around ten feet tall, right in the middle of the temple courtyard. The moon had lit it up in glowing silver light, as if specifically to draw Crowley’s eye. After glancing around briefly, the demon shimmied up the carved coils and peered inside. His nose wrinkled when he saw that the statue had been left to the elements for years, and its mouth was filled with cobwebs, dead leaves, droppings, and debris from all the small animals that had nested in it. A wave cleared the hole of detritus, and he reached inside, fingers closing around a small, leathery lump down in the back of the stone serpent’s throat. He withdrew the bundle of ancient hide, peeled it open and _oh!_ There it was: a golden seven-pointed star inlaid with jade, a spiral serpent delicately carved in the gemstone. It came on a long, slender gold chain, so he slipped it around his neck, putting the amulet inside his shirt, and climbed back down. It vibrated softly against his skin, reminding him of the god's rumbling-thunder voice, and he felt oddly comforted.

It would seem that the stars had not told Caocoszcatl that her guest would be returning early, but they also did not warn of danger, and as such, the old woman was asleep when Crowley returned to her home. The hut was still warm and welcoming, with pots of warm soup and herbal drink next to the low-burning fire. Crowley did not care to disturb her, and after getting some supplies from his cart, he quietly left a glossy white fox pelt and a leather flask of wine just inside the priest's doorway: a gift of gratitude for her kindness. He also went back to the temple to leave several mangoes and another wine flask at Kukulkan's stele. _Well,_ the demon thought, _guess that’s that._ With a soft sigh of determination, he patted the amulet under his shirt, and then returned again to his mule cart, climbing in and leaving for the port while the stars were still bright. No time to waste. He needed to return to Europe as quickly as possible and end this.

***

2Or, rather, the idea of vomit, blood and bile, and the idea of filthiness, for that matter, since nothing in Hell was actually material - but they sure did a good job making it feel (and look, and smell) real.[return to text]

3But one does not say 'please' or 'thank you' or 'kind' in Hell. So what he actually said was more like 'Get on it before our work on Earth is fucked, you useless, pustulent twits!' And, since to the average demon, an artfully-wrought insult is practically praise, they actually did so.[return to text]

4From Spanish: 'Welcome, Star Brother.' ... 'Come inside and rest by the fire.'[return to text]

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> p.s. I love the angel babies and would die for them. - Blue


	11. Falling Slowly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is stretched to his limit as he nurses a wounded and unstable Aziraphale back to health.  
> He knows they don't have much time left.
> 
> CW: panic attacks/mental instability, blood/vampirism, mild gore

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was basically an exercise in breaking our own hearts. Enjoy.
> 
> Thanks to Joy_Shines for being our editor and beta-reader!

Somewhere outside of Prague, in a cavern too far from the surface to see any hint of light, an angel lay quietly in a cage without bars. Aziraphale had no way to measure the passing of days, but in the long stretches of time gifted to him, he’d decided to try to sleep as much as possible. In his dreams, he often wandered through the Mitnal, now silent and empty but for himself and the watching eye of the moon. Just as often, he simply floated in a velvety, liquid void. Between dreaming and hallucinating, there came a point where he could no longer tell whether or not he was awake, so he had simply cleared a patch of ground to curl up on, closed his eyes, and hoped - not for a rescue, but for an internal freedom, a complete surrender of mind and self, an escape from awareness that he could not find. This was what the angel had always imagined Sheol to be like: a place where time had no meaning, endless and instantaneous at the same time. There were sounds every so often: roots boring through stone, subtle drips and cracks, the low scuffle of animals just outside the warded entrance. These sounds became the basis for his reality, a framework of events that were now the only reference he had to anything beyond the circle of his prison.

When he was lucid enough, Aziraphale wrote, blindly etching words into nearby stone with his preternatural fingernails until even their steel-hard tips were ground down, and his fingertips bled. It had begun as a letter, an apologetic message to whomever he'd eventually harm if he were released, but then it had wandered into self-pitying rambling about how he'd tried to do the right thing and how it was never good enough, followed by ranting about his bosses and the massive sticks they all had up their metaphorical behinds - one Archangel Gabriel in particular. Gradually, his letters meandered into indulgent prose about wind and water and the world being cracked in half, becoming less coherent as his thoughts slowly deteriorated into madness. In this manner, the angel wrote until all the surfaces he could reach from within the spell circle were covered in nonsensical ramblings about his visions and nightmares: monsters, worms, spoons, bread, birds, music, the terror of sleeping, the uncertainty of waking, the tormenting visions.   
  
At some point, he was no longer scratching words, just shapes: arching lines, triangles, concentric circles and eyes. There was really no point, was there? He had nothing else to say, so he stopped, allowed himself to sink down, forget himself, and rest.

***

Thanks to a delay in Havana and a supply run in Plymouth, it was a full 60 days before Crowley's boots were once again on continental soil, which translated to a full 60 days of those same boots wearing a path into the timber of the ship’s deck. Everyone on board noticed the tall, lithe redhead in his black traveler’s garb, who might have been beautiful if not for the dark circles under his eyes and the pallor of his complexion. And then there was the muttering, the pacing in endless circles, that created such a dreadful atmosphere around him that none dared to enter: here was a man cursed, plagued by unknown evil. In truth, Crowley was deep in his own head, scheming as only a demon could. 

When he finally arrived in Dunkirk, a satchel over his shoulder, a grim look on his face, Crowley purchased a thick winter coat and some blankets, then stopped by an apothecary for some choice items - he’d put together a shopping list based on his research into human spell-craft: rosemary, agrimony, rue, salt, and a large black candle. A brief visit to a local barnyard also let him acquire a couple of fresh, black hen feathers (the hen herself was less than pleased). He hoped, with these things, to be prepared for a number of contingencies.  
  
The demon then boarded the first of a series of carriages that took him back to Prague. Once he arrived, he spent another half-day hiking to the Chýnov caverns to fetch his caged angel. Though he was glad to finally be back, he wasn’t sure what state the angel would be in (or if he’d be ready to face it). He could distantly smell Aziraphale, along with general earthy dampness and six months' worth of unwashed corporeal reek; however, he couldn't pick up anything malicious, no scent of sickly power, and that gave him hope. Lighting the black candle, he made his way down. Strictly speaking, he didn't _need_ the candlelight; his kind could see just fine in the dark. It was more of a courtesy for Aziraphale, to give notice of his arrival and prevent a jump-scare. As he approached the warded entrance to the chamber, Crowley began whispering softly, putting his voice and intentions into the still air. “Aziraphale? Angel? Don't be scared, it's just me. It's Crowley. I'm coming to get you out.”

***

When the faintest glow of light appeared, a subtle shift from absolute blackness to a warmer, perceptible dark, pale blue eyes cracked open. There were oddly familiar sounds as well, some sort of organic murmuring that bounced softly off the cave walls and splashed across his vision in shades of green. Ah, but he'd seen this before; it had fooled him the first few times. Now he was too tired and heavy to let himself fall for it again. Instead, he simply watched the colors dance, dimly curious but not hopeful, and waited to see if any more would follow.

When Crowley reached the entryway, he stopped just before the cinnamon-salt line, and the candle illuminated his face and halo of grown-out copper hair. He peered inside, searching, seeing a huddled figure still in the red circle he'd made. “Angel?” he called softly. The lump didn’t move. Using his walking stick, the demon scratched a line through the barrier and stepped into the chamber, a tiny push of will making the candle in his hand burn a little brighter. From what he could see, Camazotz was not actively using the angel's body: no bat wings or claws, no swamp stink or heavy, malignant aura. But that meant Aziraphale alone had been locked inside that endless night for half a year, and Crowley was justifiably worried about how he'd fared - especially after seeing the letters, shapes, and dried blood etched into the nearby walls. There was still no response from that slumped form. “Angel?” he tried again, crouching by the circle. Gently, he thumped the end of the walking stick in the sandy dirt, and a few insects skittered away. “Rise n' shine, my sleepy dove; your black knight is here.” 

The chained being knew by now that Something New was in the cave with him, generating an abstract flurry of sound and motion. At first, he couldn’t make anything out; there was only a blinding brightness that made his squinting eyes ache. But the noises it made intrigued him, as they were somehow more meaningful than the usual ambient cracks and gurglings - as if the sounds pertained to _him_ , somehow. He was starting to think he should investigate; even if it was probably just another hallucination, at least this one felt... interesting. The human body the being resided in had become extremely stiff from being in one position for too long, and it didn't respond to his will at first. He had to force his limbs to extend, a slow and painful process, so that he could uncurl and turn to face whatever was making the sound. 

When the angel’s body shifted and turned over, Crowley felt his lower belly relax as relief trickled through him. While he’d known that the vessel of Camazotz likely wouldn’t starve to death, he _had_ been concerned about severe atrophy - possibly even a comatose state. But Aziraphale could still move, however gradually, and warmth blossomed in his chest. So strong, his angel was so strong. “There you are. Welcome back.” 

The weary creature blinked stupidly. The light was still painful, but gradually he could make out a shape: a physical thing that had dimension and boundaries, with lines of white and black that resolved into a face. He blinked again, and the lines swam, reforming into a wolf's maw that opened and closed as more noises came out of it. On an impulse, he made a noise back at it. "Good!" It came out louder than he'd anticipated, like a sharp bark, and he was fairly sure it wasn't an accurate expression of what he'd been thinking. But it was something: an idea pushed out of his head and into the open air. Yes, that would do for now.

The barked word startled Crowley slightly, as it sounded less like the actual word and more like a sound thrown out to see if the speaker could still do so. Then he smiled. “That's my angel. Give me a moment, and I’ll have you out of there.” Kneeling, the demon began work on another magic ritual. Using a sharp canine to prick his thumb, he smeared the resulting blood on the end of his walking stick, which he used to draw a mystic knot in the sand. The ingredients he'd purchased were then brought out and ground up inside a small copper bowl; after carefully placing that bowl on the knot rune, he used the candle to burn the mixture, causing an incense-like cloud to spiral upward and gradually fill the cavern. This concoction, according to his notes, would negate the effects of a hex and draw goodwill into the space - not a cure, exactly, but a balm to ease the pain.

Gradually pushing himself up into a seated position, the creature that had once been an angel wrinkled his nose against the strange smell, muttering to himself in old tongues: Aramaic, Hebrew, Greek. “Whaff, wit ondynge is't?*” he murmured, settling on Middle English. “Tis a har’ lyoem.”** Then, he raised the hand he'd been using to carve lines in the stone to shield his eyes from the candlelight, blood dried under the ground-down edges of his nails. “Th’s shine aches th’eye. Take it away, sprite.” His voice was raspy and thin, and if he recognized his visitor, there was no sign of it.

Any relief Crowley felt was short-lived, as it became quickly apparent that the incense had roused more than just his beloved’s senses. Briefly, the air around the vestigial angel darkened and crawled, and Aziraphale twitched and whimpered as if in pain, curling back down on himself. The Aspect had noticed Crowley's return and rushed to command its host body, eager to finish what it started, and the demon felt goosebumps rise on his arms when those haunting green eyes flickered to life. Taking momentary control of Aziraphale’s body, the angel’s face twisted first in malice and then in confusion; the entity had risen, only to find itself unable to maintain its hold. Then, it saw the amulet around the demon’s neck and recognized Kukulkan’s power, roaring “ _Traitor!_ ” so fiercely that the ground shook. Unwilling to surrender easily, it began to snarl and curse, and the angel’s body jerked and toppled over as the Aspect tried to reclaim it. Behind them, horrible, warped shadows writhed across the cave walls. 

Crowley wanted to reach forward, to catch Aziraphale as he fell, but to do so would be to risk becoming trapped in the circle again. He could only watch and hope, but he couldn’t help feeling a deep chill wash through him, dismayed by his inability to stop what was happening. But he had to be sure, had to be absolutely _certain_ , because he was betting more than just Aziraphale’s life on the outcome. Thankfully, the word of the Father of Wind held true, and the amulet glowed softly on Crowley's chest as the two ancient powers collided, warred, and eventually saw a victor. It was not the Aspect. 

The remnant of Aziraphale no longer understood what was happening to him, and he simply lay, glassy-eyed and passive, as the Aspect tossed him around for a moment; eventually, the entity was forced to accept its defeat, slithering back into remission, sealing itself away from the influence of its kin's amulet and the demon's witchcraft. Confused and oddly entertained by all the commotion, the angel simply remained where he had fallen, waiting to see what was next.

Even after the air had cleared and his angel lay quiet and still, Crowley continued to wait nearby, waiting for the herbal mixture to be entirely consumed. Once all the embers had gone out, he gathered the bowl of ash and swept the rune away with his hand, then rubbed the ashes on the end of his walking stick and dragged it through the red Mayan runes. As soon as that circle was broken, the symbols flickered a few times and went black. With this, the cage was gone, and the golden cuffs still binding the vestigial creature’s wrists were the only thing that held him. Satisfied, Crowley inched forward and put his hand over Aziraphale's blood-stained one. “Angel,” he said softly. “It’s all right now. You’re safe.” Then he grasped both hands and pulled, meaning to help the angel stand. “C’mon, up you get.” 

Some shaky trial and error ensued before Aziraphale could get to his feet, as they were numb from lack of blood flow; with Crowley’s aid, though, he eventually managed it. He winced slightly as blood began to flow into his leg muscles, the skin starting to prickle and itch, but it was a strangely welcome discomfort. 

The demon dusted sand from his partner’s shoulders and back, looking proud as could be. “There you go. You did so well.” His fingers found the length of chain between the cuffs, and he tugged softly at it. “Come on. Let's get you out of here."

The dirty, chained creature tilted his head at the sensation of tugging, but he followed without trying to resist. The journey out of the caverns was longer than the one into them, as Aziraphale needed to stop several times to let his eyes adjust to the growing brightness. But the daylight called to him, stirred something in him that yearned for it, and he eventually made it out, tilting his face up toward the warmth he hadn't felt in ages. Naturally, he had no way of knowing it had only been six months; it might have been years, or even decades, that had passed in that dark prison. With no way to track the movement of the sun and moon, he’d lost track of time completely, slipping in and out of dreams, yet never fully allowed to rest. What he did know was that the fresh air smelled lovely in his nostrils, and the sun felt wonderful on his skin. The expression on his face was so rapturous that Crowley was nearly moved to tears.

Much as he wanted to let his beloved bask in that afternoon light, the demon was only willing to wait a few minutes longer before coaxing the angel to follow him down to the woodland path; it simply wasn’t wise for them to linger in open, vulnerable spaces. The hike to Chýnov took the rest of the day, as Aziraphale was having trouble with any kind of pace beyond a shamble. The demon didn’t mind, as he was no longer in a hurry, and he kept a blanket wrapped around his angel's shoulders to keep out the cold (as well as a firm hand on that loop of golden chain where no passers-by might see it). Thankfully, Aziraphale was completely docile, neither animated nor fractious, like a well-trained dog trotting beside its master.

***

It was evening when they arrived in town, but a small inn just happened to have a vacant suite for two - and an innkeeper who didn't look too closely at either of them. Once they were alone, Crowley scratched the Enochian "shield" symbol on the front door and locked it, then coaxed Aziraphale into the bathroom. The angel sorely needed a wash, not only because of the accumulated funk, but because he needed to look decent if they were going to travel across Europe together. Crowley miracled up a tubful of hot water, then stripped off Aziraphale's filthy, tattered clothing and helped him get in. “C'mon, angel, in you go. Let's get you cleaned up.” Part of Crowley couldn’t help but notice the similarities between this night and the night in Cordoba, after their first encounter with Camazotz. 

The regressed angel found this all very familiar: the walls, the bath, the smell of milled soap. He was certain something like this had happened before, but the details just wouldn't coalesce. The voice and the face of this hovering red-haired being - they were familiar, too. Somehow, he knew them and trusted them, letting gentle hands guide and touch him. Though he whimpered when the hot water touched his chilled body, he quickly adjusted and sighed softly as the heat soothed his taut muscles. He hadn't spoken since the first few outbursts of disjointed language, and while he still appeared confused, he was at least happier to be somewhere warm and bright.

Crowley tended to his angel's every need, caring for him like one might care for an elderly relative, or a very young child. He healed the injured fingertips and restored the nails to their prior manicured state, and then he meticulously washed away the layers of grime and sweat. Afterwards, he dried the angel off and dressed him in a long, white nightshirt made of the softest cotton; with a small pocket knife, he carefully cut the wet, matted curls into a shorter, tidier hairstyle he knew Aziraphale would like. At just a glance, it looked like Aziraphale was back. Crowley knew better.

Being bathed was pleasant, and the angel smiled as he watched the dirt and muck slide from his skin and swirl about in the water. He sat still and rapt while having his hair washed, humming softly. Then, he was urged out of the tub, dried and dressed in soft clothing, and had the weighty, tangled length trimmed from his hair - and all of this was delightful to him. Aziraphale had no idea why any of these things were happening, but he focused intently on the being who was taking care of him, imprinting upon them not unlike a newly hatched duckling. From that point, Crowley would not need to pull him along; he would follow, eventually becoming confident on his feet again and walking with a natural gait. If one didn't look too closely, they wouldn't notice his absent stare, his blank expression and eerie silence. They would not see that somehow, the mind behind those faded-blue eyes had gotten very, very lost.

Pleased by the improvement in mood and tractability, the demon made sure his angel took a few sips of warm tea with valerian root after the bath, determining that both of them needed some rest. Although Aziraphale had only recently gotten back to his feet, Crowley was so profoundly tired that he felt numb inside - and he couldn’t exactly leave the angel to his own devices in this state. So, he guided Aziraphale to the bed, which was just large enough for two, and got in, lifting the blankets to pat the spot beside him. “Come on, angel. Let's have a lay-down."

When his caretaker brought him to the bed, Aziraphale took in the demon’s behaviour, and mimicked it by getting in and positioning himself in the same way that Crowley had. Yet, he couldn’t bear to keep still, as he’d spent so long laying motionless that his body still ached from it, and attempting to do so again made him tense and tremble. Growing increasingly agitated, he began to scratch at the bedsheets; although his nails were now too smooth to tear the fabric, he repeated the shapes that had soothed him in the cave: circles, triangles, arcs, eyes, over and over. 

“Shh, shh,” soothed the demon, putting his hands over those fidgeting, nervous ones and gently stroking the callused fingers. “It's okay, angel. I'm here with you.” The candles in the room would all be staying lit tonight, he knew. Carefully, softly, he brushed his knuckles along his friend’s jaw, noting with a pang that it was more defined now, the cheeks slimmer. Aziraphale was significantly less soft after months of gradual starvation - not that it lessened Crowley’s opinion of the angel’s beauty. He laid a feather-light kiss on Aziraphale’s cheek. “I'm here. Shh…”

For a moment, perhaps because of the kiss, a moment of clarity shone in the angel's eyes. His hands stopped convulsively moving and he took a slow, deep breath, trying to pull himself further out of the muck of his own brain. Collecting the thoughts that made sense to him, Aziraphale eventually found the words he needed: “I'm falling.”

The sentence was so simple, so clear, that it sent a chill down the serpent’s spine. That wasn't a fluke. He swallowed, reaching for the right response. Aziraphale _was_ falling: into the Mitnal, into madness, into darkness; if they couldn’t fix this, he would fall for good. But that wasn’t what his partner needed to hear right now. Crowley gave his companion’s hand a little squeeze. “I'll catch you.”

The broken being in Crowley's bed understood those words, and he nestled into the demon's chest, giving a shattered sob. He was still partially there: half in the underworld and half in that room with his partner, clinging to the hope that he truly was not alone. Eventually the warmth and softness of the bed, and the rhythmic beat of Crowley's heart, lulled Aziraphale into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Crowley sighed softly in relief as Aziraphale wept and then settled into real rest. He gladly held his angel (for this _was_ his angel, no matter what the bat-god had done) and eventually he too drifted off. The pair of them stayed in that deep sleep for nearly three days, roused only by the knock of a concerned innkeeper (who was easily mollified when the demon handed him enough money to cover a month's rent). He didn't intend to stay that long, however, as the angel’s Spanish villa was his intended destination. The inn was pleasant enough, but he needed to take Aziraphale somewhere secure, somewhere familiar - somewhere not so damn close to all the altars and rumors and wandering eyes. 

***

Later that same week, once he was convinced that his companion could function and travel safely, Crowley packed his bag and arranged for a coach to take them east. Before they left, he neatly tied Aziraphale’s hair back with a leather cord and dressed him in a simple blue-grey gentleman's outfit with heavily ruffled sleeves (more to hide the cuffs and chain than for fashion’s sake). After multiple transfers across Sweden, France, and a good portion of Spain itself - totaling nearly a month of travel - the demon was relieved when they finally made it to the villa in Cordoba and found it just as they'd left it... goodness, it seemed so long ago. The protective wards were still intact, and the demon hastily added a few of his own to deter ill-intending visitors. Aziraphale seemed to recognize the villa, appearing quite happy to be there, and once they’d gotten settled in, Crowley finally felt safe enough to remove the golden cuffs - though he still kept them nearby. Just in case.

They settled into a simple routine over the next month: dining, bathing, dressing, resting, and going out walking (when the weather allowed for it). Aziraphale was always beside him, frequently with a grip on his coat, like he was afraid Crowley would disappear into thin air if he let go. They spent nearly every evening sitting by the fire, sharing a quilt and nestling together, while Crowley read aloud from Aziraphale's collection. Every week, Crowley would recreate the ‘anti-spell’ mixture he’d used in the cavern and burn it in the villa, to refresh its negating effects, and (hopefully) to gradually push the curse further back with each use. He would also insist upon Aziraphale laying down alone for at least an hour each day, so the demon could read over and add to his journal notes, and have a stiff drink (or six) in peace; despite his great love for the angel, full-time nannying was draining work.

Under Crowley's care, Aziraphale gradually regained some of his wits, and after a week or so he almost looked like himself again: neatly dressed, hair brushed and tied, attentive to his surroundings with a little bemused half-smile. He still followed Crowley around, anxiously wringing his hands as if he'd forgotten where he was going, rarely speaking, and avoiding eye contact. Those behaviors, at least, could be explained to the other tenants. _Oh, Mr. Fell needs a little help now, that’s all,_ they’d say, shaking their heads in sympathy. _He’s just gone a bit daft, the poor man._ (This was a common occurrence in the age before people understood diseases or why heavy metals shouldn’t be ingested.) Some of the neighbors were happy to lend a hand after how caring and generous he'd been, but mostly the odd, addled Englishman was ignored - which was quite alright by Aziraphale, as he was happier left alone. He enjoyed sitting on the villa’s front porch, listening to people talk and play music out on the street, and watching the birds, squirrels, and cats that ran around in the plaza. But his favorite pastime, by far, was to bask in the sunshine, and it wasn’t long before his skin returned to a healthy, ruddy shade.

And, over time, the angel’s personality began reasserting itself - he was becoming more communicative, able to hold simple conversations. He'd still lapse into bouts of silence or babbling, but he remained aware of his surroundings; he could pour water into a cup, button his own coat, and fetch things that were requested. He'd even recognize Crowley, off and on, sometimes recalling his name - although he still had trouble with his own. 

When he spoke, Aziraphale liked the old tongues: Aramaic and Sanskrit, Hebrew, Greek, and Latin. And he enjoyed describing what he saw in his visions and dreams. He described great monuments being built, humans cutting stone and fitting it together into walls, bridges, and temples. He whispered about the trees, about their secrets and their wrath, about the slow language they shared through their flowers and roots. And he talked in hushed tones about the creature that stalked him in the sunless forest: a hungry beast with thousand mouths, a thousand grasping hands, and no belly - nothing but a hollow gap that could never be filled. 

Listening to the angel’s every word, Crowley added more notes to his journal, about all of Aziraphale’s stories, but especially the ones about the bizarre monster. If he was lucky, it was merely a symbol produced by a disturbed, dreaming mind and not something real that hunted in the underworld.

Aziraphale continued to slowly and steadily recover pieces of himself, to rebuild what had been broken. And Crowley was there beside him, just as he'd promised, supportive and proud of every forward step. As Aziraphale regained his confidence, the angel was also becoming increasingly affectionate - eager to touch and be touched, leaning and nuzzling into the demon whenever he was permitted. He began to make suggestions, to ask for things and to anticipate Crowley's requests, rather than passively waiting for instruction. Even though he was still very damaged, still far from what he had been, he had stabilized into a _person_ again. Crowley had worked hard to win that bit of ground back, and Aziraphale was doing his absolute best to hold onto it.

When Crowley wasn't minding the villa or caring for his angel, his nose was in a glass of whiskey or in his journal, but eventually, the demon had to face the inevitable future. Time was passing quickly, and there were things, frightening truths, that had been put off long enough. It was summer again; Aziraphale was doing chores, happily humming to himself, while Crowley got his notes out and did some calculations. From what he could piece together, they were in the midst of the third year of the curse. Six months to go. Two of those would need to be set aside for travel back to Guatemala, plus a week for travel to the port in Cádiz. No point in leaving any sooner, as he seriously doubted Camazotz left the gate to his domain open year-round - and the Lord of the Mitnal would be expecting them at _his_ appointed time, not their convenience. So they had four months left in Cordoba, give or take, and he would devote his attention to Aziraphale for that time. His angel’s growing affection was a welcome reward for his efforts; he returned it, and eventually initiated it, gladly. 

However, one of the more unusual things that Crowley had to adjust to was Aziraphale's complete lack of interest in eating. Before, Aziraphale had made it a regular habit to indulge himself in food - delighting in a wide array of meats, breads, fruits, and especially desserts. Now, Crowley could barely persuade the angel to finish a cup of lightly seasoned beef broth or warm milk with honey - and anything solid was refused on sight. Even so, Aziraphale seemed to be getting healthier and feeling better, so the demon didn't press the matter… until he discovered, by an unfortunate accident, what the angel _did_ have an appetite for. 

Over the past months, Crowley had been conducting experiments to test the range of the amulet's effectiveness, seeing how far he could get before Aziraphale began to shiver and twitch, feeling the Aspect’s power creeping in. He only did this a few times, quickly deciding it wasn’t worth the angel’s distress, and was fairly sure he knew how far he could safely go. He was wrong.  
  
This particular day had produced a lovely, warm afternoon, and Crowley had ventured down to the nearby river to sit and enjoy some quiet. He’d walked the few blocks back to the villa after barely fifteen or twenty minutes, only to be greeted with a thick, metallic scent and an oppressive silence. 

There, sprawled on the living room floor, was the bloody corpse of a young lady no older than sixteen, her neck snapped and her ribcage torn open. The angel, entirely under the thrall of the Aspect, was squatting over the girl’s body, holding her heart in his mouth as he sucked out the remaining blood. It should have horrified Crowley, should have made him scream, but he was so exhausted from everything in general that he merely waited until the amulet chased the Aspect back into hiding, then gently chided Aziraphale for hopelessly staining the elegant rug. It took a little finagling and a lot of cleaning, but the demon managed to keep any suspicion off of them by planting the unfortunate teenager’s body in the backyard of a known domestic abuser and tipping off the local _Benemérita***_. 

After that fiasco, Crowley attempted to sate the angel’s appetite with the blood of animals: first pigeons and rats, and then goat’s blood from a butchery. But it was no good - Aziraphale would gulp it eagerly from the cup, only to thrust it away a moment later like a petulant child. Unwilling to sacrifice another human, Crowley offered his own body instead, using a knife to open his radial artery twice a week. Thankfully, demonic blood seemed to be more potent than human, and Aziraphale’s hunger never demanded more than he could spare. Perhaps the most unsettling part of that entire affair was how much the demon’s body would tingle as he watched the angel greedily nurse from his wrist. He tried not to think about that.

Killing the girl presented a huge setback. After that, the restoration of Aziraphale's personality was no longer a gift, and the months that followed tested Crowley in every way possible as the angel’s guilt and magic collided with his shifting memories and mental state. When Aziraphale was lucid, he’d remember what he'd done (not only to the teenager, but to several dozen other humans in the construction of Camazotz' altars) and would become inconsolable for days at a time. He’d sob and pace, pull at his hair and claw at his skin until he bled, and scream himself hoarse until his strength gave out, at which point, he’d become non-communicative and immobile. There was little Crowley could do to help him during these fits; even putting the angel back to sleep for a little while was fraught with problems, as that sleep was full of nightmares that often resulted in panic attacks.  
  
After a particularly rough jag, the angel began to involuntarily manifest miracles: overgrowths of rose bushes, brilliant auroras in the night sky, the resurrection of several dogs that had been cruelly slaughtered by a town ne’er-do-well (which then hunted down the young man who'd killed them). The most notable of the lot was the appearance of about 50 kilos of ripe green oranges in the middle of the flat. It was honestly a mercy when he lost his grip on reality, and slid back into unresponsive muttering.

The demon was aware of the influx of miracles, of course; the roses and auroras were beautiful, if overblown, and he was especially appreciative of the karmic justice of the resurrected dogs (even if it did cause quite the stir in town). Ironically, the mountain of oranges in their living room was the one thing that kept Crowley from breaking under the stress, as it was so unexpected and absurd that it struck him as almost insanely funny - so funny, in fact, that he'd had a laughing fit so intense that he nearly fainted from lack of oxygen. (The neighbors would all find themselves gifted with unexplained crates of oranges the next day, but unknowingly living next to an angel, they’d gotten used to random acts of kindness.) 

Crowley no longer strayed far from home, and even though he remained close, Aziraphale's mind would still occasionally bleed back out into the Mitnal, becoming agitated, violent, and hungry. At these times, Crowley would soothe the monster by cutting a line across his forearm and letting his delirious beloved drink, and the angel would calm, the hunger fading. When he came back to himself, he’d be repulsed by the coppery taste in his mouth. At first, Aziraphale wouldn’t know where the blood came from, only that it brought him back from that dark and lonely place - but then he would see the bandaged wounds on the demon’s wrists and remember just a little bit, and he would weep. 

***

On an unseasonably clear day, when they were sitting out on the patio enjoying the sun, Aziraphale spoke up with an unusual clarity and determination. “I have to go back.”

Crowley's eyes flicked over to his companion. “Go back where, angel?” That tone was new, and it made him uneasy.

“To where it all started: the door in the dark,” said Aziraphale. “The gate will open soon, and I have to be there.” He turned to his companion and squeezed that familiar hand gently, his dark wings rustling in their pocket dimension. “That’s where it’s going to end.” Rather than seeming afraid, the angel was smiling wearily. Maybe he would die there, or maybe he wouldn’t, but what did it matter? He spent most of his days in a liquid dream-state, swinging between torment and torpor. At this stage, any finish line was worth crossing. “Please, Crowley. I can hear the dead, and they want to rest. I need to rest. We were never meant to interfere - but I have, and this is how I set things right. I have to go all the way back.”

Ah, so that's what it was about. Crowley's uneasiness settled. “Yes,” he agreed, nodding. “I have to go there, too. So we'll go all the way back together, and we’ll fix this.” He raised an eyebrow at his partner. “ _Together,_ yeah? No running off without me again, or I'll be very cross with you, angel.”

Perhaps with the nearing end, the Mitnal had loosened its grip on Aziraphale. His skin was still crossed with slender scars that refused to heal, his eyes still as green and dark as century eggs, but he was more himself than he'd been in months. He remembered that tone of voice, remembered being scolded by it so lovingly, and he had just enough of his old spark to chuckle, “Well, we certainly don’t want that.” 

“That’s right, you don’t,” quipped the demon. They were sharing a cushioned wicker bench for two, so he had no trouble sliding an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders and squeezing lightly. “Just one more month, and we can arrange for a ship to take us there. You don’t have to face this alone, angel.”

Humming, Aziraphale leaned in and rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder. After a moment, he began to murmur, and it was clear that his mind had slipped into unpleasant places again. “I don’t want to go _anywhere_ alone. I don't want to hurt anyone else.” A soft sigh was heard. “I know I've done terrible things, and I don't know why. I used to be good.” Aziraphale was so sure of it; something had felt right, knowing and pure, once upon a time. Before the stains had set in on his hands and his soul, one over the other, until they blotted out his light - he had once been good.

Crowley’s arm tightened around Aziraphale. “You’re still good, angel,” he said softly. “A bad person doesn't wonder if they're bad, or cry for the dead, or regret things they've done. None of it was your fault. I know that doesn't mean much right now, but it's true." He kissed his angel's temple. “I will never stop believing in you, or leave your side. I made a promise to you at this very house - do you remember?"

His companion’s words were very tender, and Aziraphale felt curiously soothed by them. Then he shook his head regretfully. “No. I’m so sorry. I wish I did.” 

The demon couldn’t suppress the twinge of sorrow, but he managed to keep it from showing on his face. He'd underestimated how badly the angel's memory had been affected. But it wasn’t Aziraphale’s fault that he couldn’t remember, nor did it change Crowley’s own determination. “I know.” Another kiss to the temple. “I promised myself to you, everything that I have and that I am.” 

That reminder rang a distant, rusty bell, but Aziraphale’s mind was too murky to respond. All the same, a warm glow appeared in his chest, and he smiled. Even if he didn’t remember, this demon had given the angel no reason to distrust him. “I’m glad that I remember _you,_ at least. I know you, and I know that I love you, but... everything else is a jumble. I don't know where we came from, or who I am, or- or what I am. Not human. Not-” He paused, contemplating everything he could pull from the debris of his mind. In his moments of lucidity, Aziraphale had come to doubt if he'd actually ever left the underworld, if perhaps his return and the ensuing years had been an illusion meant to break him, destroy his spirit bit by bit. Every time he coalesced back into self-awareness, his mind felt clearer, but his stamina was wearing thin. He felt stretched out, fragile and ephemeral: a scrap of gauze waiting to tear. “Crowley, am I alive?”

Now that one hurt, and Crowley couldn’t hide it this time. Had Aziraphale spent the last few months with him wondering if he was actually dead? “Yes, you are definitely alive,” he replied immediately, earnestly. Ah, now that he thought of it, the angel had experienced something similar after first escaping the Mitnal, and he’d needed something to help him feel grounded. “Here, look at this.” Shifting, the demon swept his braid over his shoulder, showing his beloved the creamy, frayed ribbon that remained ever faithfully tied to the end. “Even if you don’t remember giving me this, there’s no way Camazotz would know I’ve kept it this long. Much less that I put it in my hair.” 

The sight of the ribbon conjured a watery image of time spent together, of cozy inns and silk dresses and sweet whispers. A time before it all went wrong - before _he_ went wrong. Aziraphale’s eyes watered as he touched the soft slip of fabric, rubbing it between his fingers. “You’re right,” he whispered, voice thick with tears. The death god couldn’t possibly know about this token - and if that was the case, then this couldn’t be an illusion. “I’m surprised you’ve kept it this long. It’s so worn out now.”

“A little,” the demon conceded, touching the ribbon affectionately and then looking directly into those dark eyes. “But it’s still beautiful. And it’s mine.”

Aziraphale gripped the end of that plait and kissed it, then burst into tears. Crowley was there immediately, holding him close and stroking his snowy curls. It was some time before the angel calmed again, but that was all right: he’d recognized his own existence, and that was enough.

***

As the last few weeks at the villa wrapped up, Aziraphale had collected himself enough to have longer, more meaningful discussions with his companion. He remembered snippets of their travels and adventures together. With some coaxing, he remembered their intimacy on the boat to England, and he grinned with that wry bastard spark that had been missing for so long. At the same time, he spent most of the day resting, wrapped in blankets, too exhausted to get up and go for walks or even to go out to the porch at the bottom of the stairs. He told Crowley, “There’s not much time left. We have to go.”

Crowley was likewise aware of the inevitable passage of time, which was something he was wholly unused to noticing. Minutes together reading, sharing a bath, reminiscing and laughing, had become precious, something to be drawn out and savored like fine wine. And then there were no days left, no more minutes, and the demon knew they could savor no longer. With only a nod, he began the preparations. Payments were made, bags packed, coaches hailed, neighbors thanked, and rooms tidied and locked down; within two days, they were in a carriage headed to Cádiz. It was a trifle sooner than Crowley had planned, but he didn't mind - better to be early than late.

When they boarded the galleon, a handsome vessel named _The Siren,_ their cabin was furnished for two, and it didn't take them long to settle in. Stuck in one place, with limited worry about Aziraphale disappearing, Crowley slept a great deal, gathering strength for the ordeal to come. When he wasn't sleeping, he was conversing with Aziraphale, playing pranks on the crew (it felt good; it had been awhile), and brooding over his notes. 

The Father of Wind said that Aziraphale's soul was tethered to the bat-god’s underworld, but he hadn’t told Crowley nearly enough for the demon to understand what that meant. After his continued study, he came to the conclusion that the culmination of the curse would most likely involve forcing Aziraphale back into the Mitnal (probably for eternity, or at least until the current cycle ended - whichever came first). That simply would _not_ do, no sir.  
  
Crowley would have to reason with Camazotz, to appeal for mercy, to make the angry god understand that they were both unwitting cogs in a machine that neither of them knew existed, and that they were so very sorry for their roles in his disturbance. It had to work. He'd make it work, somehow, because he didn't know how else he'd go on. And if it came down to one of them? If the only thing that would balance the scales was a life? If he was given any choice in the matter, it would be his own.  
  
By the time they reached the end of their sea-voyage, Crowley had a tentative speech prepared, ready to beg Death itself to forgive them. And, after another brief stop in Cuba, they were once again on the Guatemalan shore. 

All that was left was to find the gate, and he had a feeling Aziraphale would be the key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Middle English: What's that smell?
> 
> ** Middle English: That's a harsh/bright light.
> 
> *** Spanish civil guard


	12. A Foreigner's God

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curse and Aziraphale's journey finally reach their ends.  
> But Crowley's does not.
> 
> CW: ARCHIVE WARNING APPLIES
> 
> Thanks to Joy_Shines for being our beta and editor!

It wasn't difficult for the pair to retrace their steps to the town where they'd met the missionary years before; however, it was considerably more challenging to find a guide willing to take them anywhere near their old campsite. There was an ominous feeling in that area, the locals whispered, a foul miasma that froze the blood. None of them would go anywhere near it. The sight of Aziraphale surely didn’t help: pale, gaunt, and streaked with dark veins, the angel looked like he could crumble like a sand statue at any moment. His grim demeanor alone was enough to make passerbys shy away from them, and Crowley couldn’t begrudge them that. If he didn't know Aziraphale, didn't love him with his entire heart, he might’ve done the same. 

“It’s all right,” said the angel wearily. “He knows we’re here. He’ll see to it that we find him.” 

Crowley nodded, and they left the village on foot. They brought no gear with them this time, no food or drink, no bedrolls, no tents. They were not here on a meandering jungle walk; they were here on a mission, singular in their focus. Heaven, Hell, angels, devils, blessings, temptations... none of it mattered. Aziraphale moved more slowly those days, as if walking itself had become a burden, and he willingly clung to his partner for support as they quite literally approached Death. Gradually, they moved deeper into the immense tangle of trees, and the sunlight dimmed as the limbs became interwoven, the air growing heavier. They were getting close. Crowley felt the amulet of Kukulkan hum softly against his chest, felt his own pulse beating in his neck. He was afraid - oh _gods_ , he was so afraid, and yet his legs carried him forward.

They had travelled for several days before finding the place the first time, yet it took only a few hours for Aziraphale to lead Crowley to a familiar clearing that shouldn't have been anywhere near where they were. The angel stopped, raised his hand to halt his companion as well, and the earth opened before him, soil falling away into the mouth of that strange, sacred cave they'd once spent an afternoon in, huddled between worlds. The jumble of stones and parting soil exposed a navigable stair-like path downward. The door had come to meet them.

It was here that Crowley finally remembered where he'd seen the feathered serpent's likeness: here, reverently painted on the walls of this secret cave, this void, this sanctuary when they first discovered that they could truly be Alone together. The Father of Wind had been there from the start. Yet now, a different god was waiting for them. Swallowing, Crowley gripped Aziraphale's palm a little tighter and took the first step. Down they descended, without looking back, into what felt like the gaping jaws of an enormous beast. Sweat was beading on Crowley's nape. Stay calm. Stay focused. He had work to do.

The underground passage looked very much as it had when they'd left. Aziraphale's coat was still there near the entrance, dry and stiff, the blue wool greyed by a years-thick layer of dust. Nearby, a pile of rocks and cold ashes where they'd made a fire. The angel passed these without pause or acknowledgment, leading Crowley through the corridor, deeper into the earth, passing carvings and statues that the demon now had a far deeper understanding of. 

Seeing the temple-cave was like being embraced, briefly, by an old friend, and Crowley felt ever-so-slightly less afraid. But the trepidation was still there, stewing within his belly. Calm. Focus. No time for this. Aziraphale was walking more steadily now and was clearly the one leading him, as if he was more energized. The Mitnal was calling to him, and Crowley knew that the angel must follow, in the same way that Crowley must follow the angel.

The air grew stuffy, and the light from the entrance faded away as the pair continued on, moving ever further from the surface world. Lights began to appear ahead of them, just as it was getting difficult for Aziraphale to see. Kukulkan's glyphs were painted on the walls at semi-regular intervals, and every one of these were brightly glowing, showing them the way. The glyphs behind them faded away as they approached the only way out. They both knew that, beyond that exit, the entrance to Camazotz' lair awaited them: the sunless tunnel of trees.

This, too, was both comforting and horrible in its familiarity. The dense air, the bioluminescent roots spreading over the earth like the threads of a spider's web, the heady silence - all the same as it had been the first time they'd broached it. What fools they'd been, truly, two incompetents chasing a dead man's bones. Wordlessly, the pair followed the path before them, towards the glow at the end, towards the arched doorway and the ring of graven stones. 

"... right," the demon said, barely pushing the words out. "Here we are, then. Let's see if he's home." This time, arm in arm, angel and demon passed through the gateway and stepped into the ring. Crowley held his breath.

And again, the softly shining fungal pod came into view - except that it lay open, like a wilted lily, the red segments limp across the dark soil. Sitting in the centre, the humanoid figure that was Camazotz unfurled the great, leathery wings that had been wrapped cocoon-like around himself to observe his guests.

"Welcome," Said the Death God, a crackle of bone, and they were welcome.

Aziraphale approached, struggling to take those last few steps. He had become cold against Crowley's side, the beat of his heart slowing, labouring. He was so close; he had made it in time. And he sank to his knees at the foot of his Master's throne, unable to stand any longer.

 _Wait._ It was happening too quickly. _Wait-!_

Crowley barely had time to react, to think. The angel, his angel, was kneeling, submitting. That wasn't right - Aziraphale was too stubborn; Aziraphale didn't bow before anyone. No, no, no, this wasn't right at all, because, because-!

"Rest," Said Camazotz. "You've done all you could."

And the angel smiled, exhaled, and let himself slip away, his body falling limp.

Crowley wanted to rush forward, to scream, but could not. His breath was gone, and so was Aziraphale.

" _No_." The word was forlorn, cracked, helpless. The demon staggered, dropping to his knees by the fallen angel, gripping his heart, draping over the angel's body like he could revive it with his own warmth. "No, no, no, please, no..." His hands were shaking - everything was shaking.

The sorrow in the demon's chest, in his belly, was so great that his bones creaked under the strain. This wasn't right! This wasn't fair! He'd tried everything, and his beloved was still dragged down into the Mitnal. His stomach churned as he imagined Aziraphale back in that sunless forest, hunted and haunted by horrors untold - and this time, there was no escape, no redemption. The angel would be alone in that darkness forever, and it would be a mercy when madness took him. 

"Beings like you," said the bat-winged deity on his throne. "You see the world and its events in a very stark, black and white way." Camazotz gestured between the demon and the angel's still body. "You're either good or bad, loved or despised, alive or dead." The expression on the god's wrinkled face was difficult to read, but it held no happiness or satisfaction, nor any anger over what had become or his plans or his fallen pawn. "Because your creator sees the world this way, and She has made Her children to see it this way as well."

Distantly, Crowley heard the bat-god speaking and only just registered what was being said... until he heard the phrase 'alive or dead' and his head snapped up. "You-!" Anger rose and roiled around with his grief, fangs peeking from under his lips. "You- how could you do this?! How could you make him suffer like this?! He's done _nothing_ to you, he doesn't deserve- he didn't-" Crying, he could feel wetness on his face, and he gave a shuddering inhale. "Please don't do this. If you have to drop someone into Hell, then take me instead! Please...!"

"I have already done too much, _angelito_. We have tread too far down this path to change its direction, and I cannot trade your places even if it would make any difference." Camazotz stood and stepped down from his throne. "It is good that you got him here in time. He would not have lasted much longer. This angel was not as strong as I had hoped - he really should have had more time before my Aspect did so much damage." The god paused, fixing Crowley with his ember gaze. "But I can sense my brother's meddling. It would not surprise me if his interference weakened my power, my ability to keep your companion strong. You were lucky to get here when you did."

Crowley made a strangled noise then, both from the refusal and the intensity of that gaze. "No, please..." There was a soft thrum of power from the amulet, and he flinched. The notion that his efforts had been doing more harm than good made him feel quite ill, and the color drained from his face. "I... I made it worse?" His hands tightened in Aziraphale's tunic, and his head lowered, teardrops darkening the fabric. "I didn't mean- they were- Heaven was going to erase him! I couldn't just sit there and do nothing! Please... Please, there must be something you can do. He went through so much, he was hurting so much. Please don't make him suffer anymore."

"Calm yourself. Your companion is not suffering - he rests in Xibalba, the jewel of my realm. He is at peace there, it is a safe and beautiful place. He waits, for there are still choices to be made. That you must make." The bat-god made a gesture, and mycelium began to crawl up out of the soil and knit itself together.

The demon sniffled and looked up again, confusion edging into the grief on his face. Xibalba - that name rang a bell from his Codex notes: a final resting place for human souls, akin to Heaven. No, better than Heaven. "He's... resting? He's at peace?" Crowley wiped his nose on his sleeve, attempting to regain his composure. "Oh, thank you," he whispered to the deity, and his relief was palpable. Aziraphale wasn't here, but at least he wasn't alone in the dark. Then he frowned. "What choices? This is the end, isn't it? He's... He's gone, he's dead."

"He is," Camazotz conceded, nodding. "But there are those of us who believe everyone deserves a second chance. Didn't _you_ ?" He beckoned for the demon to come forward. "And what came of that? Was it fair?" 

Crowley jolted and gasped softly; he could feel Aziraphale's body waver under his palms, the flesh and bone becoming aethereal and insubstantial, before it dissolved into dust and drifted away - as if it had never existed. "Angel..." No, no, he couldn't start crying again. This had taken a strange turn, and he needed to keep his wits about him. Swallowing, he stood up and stepped forward when beckoned. Was it fair? "No," he croaked softly. "Wasn't fair at all. None of it."

"I... was not fair, either.” Something akin to contrition seeped into the deity’s words. “When you first came to me, I was angry beyond reason. I had been forced to return after I had conceded my territory, after I had retreated, expecting to sleep until the next Cycle - but instead, I woke to find Yaweh's people arriving not only with books, but with swords and torches. They came to slaughter the humans who remained loyal to my Court, and I could not abide this." 

The grinding, threatening quality had faded from the god's voice, and now he simply sounded old and very tired. "My brother, Kukulkan, came to me, after you destroyed my altars. I am not sure how, but he found a way into my realm..." He eyed Crowley, evidently having his suspicions. "...And he told me about you. He told me what you did to seek him out, what you told him - and I believe you and I both need another chance. So now I will bestow upon you my final kindness." And he indicated the fungal mass that had risen at his will and woven itself into a low, broad bench. "Lay down."

The serpent was staring wide-eyed at the bat-god. This primordial creature, this heartless villain from beyond the veil, was speaking to him in similar tones to the feathered serpent... and it wasn't said in so many words, but Crowley could hear the apology in Camazotz's voice. He'd been furious and fearful, and had done what needed doing to protect himself, his realm, and his followers - and he regretted it.

At the order to lay upon the fungal bench, he moved to stand beside it... and paused. "What happens if I lay down?" he asked softly, pulse beating visibly in his neck. "Am I going to die, too?"

"I cannot tell you that. All I can tell you is that I am sending you to be with your companion. The choices you make after that are the ones that will determine what happens to you." Simple enough, for a being that had experienced multiple worlds and myriad timelines in dimensions beyond the laws of logic that bound their current reality.

The demon's lips were suddenly very dry, and he fought the urge to lick them. He looked down at the bench. Sent to his companion, the god said. Was this his funeral pyre? Was his 'second chance' simply to be reunited with Aziraphale in Xibalba? 

Like any creature, he was afraid to die, but... perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. At the very least, this current world no longer had Aziraphale in it, and a world without Aziraphale wasn't a world worth being in. Crowley, Serpent of Eden, released a shuddering breath and did as he was bade. Yellow eyes looked up at the deity, and his expression was full of gratitude.

Without another word, Camazotz raised his hands and spread his wings wide. With a gesture, he parted the canopy above, and a rush of air and light poured in: brilliant, blinding, as if the sun itself were flooding in and taking all of Crowley's senses with it. Everything faded to white and silent oblivion. The forest, the scent of death, the sensation of soft loam under the demon's hands - all of it blurred into nothingness.

And somewhere, in a place of peace, an angel smiled.

***

Crowley's last thoughts were of Aziraphale, and then that ethereal, encompassing light overtook him, swallowed everything in white. This was it. He was sinking. He was dying. 

He was... walking? 

He was, as far as he could tell, not dead. When the light faded to a soft green and his vision cleared, Crowley was on his feet, back in the tunnel of trees outside Camazotz's circle. Aziraphale was standing there as well, dressed in beige breeches and a white blouse, his shoulder-length hair in healthy oiled ringlets, his eyes clear and nimbus blue. And he was speaking, entirely unaware of Crowley’s sudden disorientation and shock.

"...Well maybe it'll be reasonable, we should probably try to talk to it." The angel snapped his fingers, a small sphere of light appeared in his hand, and he turned, ready to foolishly march forward to his fate, just like he had before.

 _What the heaven?_ He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again, squinting at his surroundings. Hadn't he just been-... where-? Then the angel spoke to him, whole and hale and _alive_ , and Crowley's body was perfectly willing to move right then. Like a snake striking, he snatched the back of that white collar firmly, stopping the oblivious angel in his bloody tracks. "Let's not. On second thought, let's really, really not go down there. Bad feeling, very bad."

And as before, the body of Edmund collapsed, dead and rotted, and the voice of Death echoed through the tunnel, "Are you going to leave without talking to me? Everyone comes to talk to me."

The tunnel once again offered no exit, and Aziraphale looked back at Crowley, startled and then frightened. He tucked his hands up to his chest protectively, still gripping his muddy walking stick, and he pointed over his shoulder toward the source of the grinding voice. "Ah... see? It... does want to talk."

Watching Edmund's decayed body fall over was still pretty goddam unnerving, despite having seen it before. The poor bastard. He really didn't have any business being out here, and neither did they. But now they were trapped, same as before, and the only way out was forward. 

Crowley peered ahead, and took a long, steadying breath. "Well, then... maybe we should? Come on, angel." And this time, he reached out and grasped Aziraphale's hand before walking forward with him. No Heaven or Hell here - they could all get stuffed. He paused before the archway of stones, the bat runes etched deep and painted red, and then they both passed under it and stepped into the ring. Again. Today(?) was full of repeats.

The fungal throne split open, pouring its ichor into the ground, and Camazotz emerged, folding his wings back and eyeing the pair who had walked into his lair. "Two angels visit me today. This is quite an event. I do not know how you got here, but I suspect my brother is up to another of his tricks." The death-god sighed, the sound of a collapsing sand dune, and he reclined against the side of his seat. "I am afraid I cannot offer you much. However..." With a gesture, a section of fungal root raised up from the ground and expanded into something resembling a backless sofa. "...this is an opportunity I would hate to lose. Please, sit. There is much to discuss."

Crowley realized, later than he’d have liked, he was staring like a gape-mouthed twit. He regained his composure and cleared his throat, then wrinkled his nose - the place certainly didn't _smell_ any better the second time around. But without fear and confusion coloring his vision, the entire encounter had changed in tone. Camazotz sounded less like a malicious god of death and more like a disgruntled cat woken from its afternoon siesta. 

Aziraphale looked to his companion, confused by the look on Crowley's face. He was trembling almost imperceptibly, frightened and upset, and decided he'd rather remain standing.  
  
Seeing his companion’s hesitation, Crowley guided him over and parked his own bottom on the provided seat. "C'mon, angel," he encouraged gently, patting the spot beside him like he'd patted their bed so many times in years to come. "It'd be bad manners if we don't sit, right?"

The angel made a small, huffy sound and did as his friend requested, though he would really have preferred to keep his guard up. The mushroom sofa was drier than he expected, and quite comfortable, but it did little to alleviate the situation.

Camazotz was quiet for a while, letting the pair figure themselves out. When his guests returned their attention to him, he said, "I expect my brother, the Father of Wind, Kukulkan, has brought you to me because he knows I have been battling your creator - our sister, Yahweh. It is not what I would choose, but I fight for my existence. And you two... well. You are potentially very dangerous or very valuable to me."

Crowley took another steadying breath, trying to slow his heartbeat. Both had avoided stepping on toes right out of the gate by accepting the bat-god's offered hospitality. He was starting to get what was happening now, but knew Aziraphale was the one he'd have to watch. In the last scenario, the angel was informed, but dead; in this one, he was alive, but with nary a clue. The information Camazotz was giving them was new to the angel, and it might not be well-received. He had to choose his words carefully. "And how is that... uh, sir?" The demon still had no idea how to politely address a god that wasn't 'his'.

"We don't care to be of value to you," Aziraphale started, his tone ascending into tartness, "Not after what you've done to that poor, innocent man. I don't know what kind of demon you are, but I know the Almighty will have something to say about all of this!" He looked at Crowley with a smug expression. The demon struggled to resist the urge to kick him squarely in the shin.

Camazotz laughed, crackling and humorless. "Stubborn angels,” he grumbled. "You waste your freedom. All I want is for you to listen. I know it is difficult for you, children of Yahweh, with your stark, black-and-white thinking - but try, yes? Try."

Crowley's way of thinking was a little more in the grey area than he cared to admit; it was part of what caused him to Fall. He kept that information to himself and winced at the angel's haughty tone. By some minor miracle, though, Aziraphale decided to stop there. The taut muscles in Crowley's shoulders and lower back relaxed slightly. Yes. Good. Now was the time to listen, and to learn, so they could all be on the same page.

Camazotz went over some of the same things Kukulkan had done during Crowley's talk with the Wind God, albeit lacking a lot of the detail about cycles and the oscillating relationship between the gods. Instead, this being focused on Yahweh's increasing hunger for control and power, and Her bid to infect the New World with her faith. This tactic would allow Her to find and destroy the other Gods' conduits to Earth, rendering them powerless and adrift - as she had already done to Osiris and Thor and Vishnu and many others, who had already been cast out from Her Creation. He also told them that he had been forced from his rest to protect his humans from Her encroachment. "Make them stop, _angelitos_. Make Her stop sending them. My patience grows thin, and She is forcing my hand. If I do not take action and kill Her priests, they will claim the people here; even now they preach from their book, and slaughter those who refuse to bow down. And your God will find and destroy me unless I surrender my last foothold on Earth and flee. And yet, even were I to do so, I would only delay the inevitable. She is stronger than I am."

The serpent sat quietly, more interested in watching Aziraphale's reactions to the information that was being shared. He imagined that many of the emotions he'd experienced at the Father of Wind's temple (helplessness, revelation, awe) were flowing through the angel right now. A pity he didn't also get to experience that remarkable potion that made the moon laugh.

“I don’t want - Ah.” The bat-god blinked and stared at Crowley, tilting his head as if just noticing something very strange. "A moment," he said, and then paused... well, technically, everything paused, except for Camazotz and the demon. 

As Aziraphale froze, Crowley could feel the snap of time halting, and he couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly the deity had done it. Camazotz stood from his throne and approached him then, speaking in calm tones. "Your friend knows nothing, but I see the warp around you, the excess memories. You have been sent back, and memories bleed from you.” The bat-god summoned another fungal form, which flattened itself into a small table between himself and the demon. "The version of me who has lived that other life, the one I know through you - he has regrets. We feel remorse for what was done to you, for the consequences of our anger. So, now, we offer you an alternative." From the air, he summoned two small, corked jars, one in each clawed hand.

This was very similar to what the deity told Crowley before, and he swallowed as he looked the jars over. No colors. No labels. They looked exactly the same, down to the grooves on the corks. His heart rate was picking up again. "Wh... What are these?" More importantly, what did they mean?

“A choice that only you can make.” Camazotz tapped one of the jars, and a symbol appeared on it: two simple red figures with their hands joined. "Drink this one, and you return to the moment your lover dies, four years in the future. I restore him to life and health, and give him the strength to withstand my Aspect’s power and bring about the fall of your Creator. If you choose this path, there will be much death in the beginning; we will be re-establishing the order that has been upset, and ultimately saving many, many more people from Her malice. After this task is completed, both of you will rest in Xilbalba. Your friend will remain my acolyte, and though he will love you, he will never be who he was before.

When he tapped the second jar, a different symbol appeared: a blue spiral. "Drinking this one will take you back to the moment that brought the two of you to me and change your path entirely, so that we will never have met. Your friend will be as he was before you came to my domain, and will remember nothing of the timeline you have shared - his suffering and torments will be entirely erased. But this is not without cost: he will also forget his love for you, and you will remember everything. You alone will bear the burden of our stories and your promises."

Camazotz placed both vessels on the table and made an open-handed gesture of offering.

The demon sat there, listening, waiting, watching, as he always did. The choices were there, on the table, such tiny things, each carrying the weight of a world. Yet, they were... oddly simple. A question unfurled in the demon’s mind, then. “Why now, though? Why couldn’t you have given me this choice before sending me back here?”  
  
The bat-god took a moment, gathering memories from what could be, and then replied, “At the time that I sent you back, I had become very weak, very tired. I was so angry when you first arrived, but I now know that my actions would have been futile. That version of me could not change the entire stream of time; he no longer has the power.” Fathomless eyes fixed on the demon. “You should know, _angelito_ , that the past version of me has put his trust in you; he has used all his remaining strength to bring you to this moment within my realm. He was too weary, but I am not. As I am now, I can undo all of this.”

The knowledge that the prior Camazotz had quite literally sacrificed himself to send the demon back here, rattled Crowley to the core. This was his second chance, and ultimately, the god’s as well. _Undo,_ the god said _._ With a single choice, Crowley could change everything; it was a gift, and also a curse. If he chose Blue, it would erase everything. Aziraphale would never be taken, never be traumatized by the four years in the Mitnal. He would never slaughter innocents, nor be preyed upon by Heaven, nor have to be chained up like a beast and lose his wits to darkness. Most importantly, the angel would not have to wither and die. They could escape this jungle, undo their mistakes, and everything would be business as usual. But, he thought with a pang, the tender closeness they shared would vanish - the promises, the confessions, and the intimacy would be so much dust in the wind. They would revert to the status quo of their careful, rehearsed dance around each other, and Crowley would have to remember everything and uphold his promises... with no one there to support him.

If he chose Red, he could continue to have what he always wanted: Aziraphale by his side, as his lover, restored to full mental and physical power. The two of them could fight side-by-side with Camazotz to defeat Yahweh and restore the universal balance, saving countless human lives. Gods help him, but there was something wonderfully poetic about that idea. As the bat-god said, there would be a lot of human deaths in the beginning, but in the end, they would all be free. But, he thought with a second pang, Aziraphale would fall from grace and remain a servant of Camazotz. The angel would bear the weight of his guilt and sorrows, and would never be fully himself again.  
  
Crowley's lower lip began to tremble, his hands beginning to shake. He looked over at Aziraphale, sitting statue-still next to him with his periwinkle eyes and bright skin and sharp mind. His fingers felt around his own chest - oddly, the amulet of Kukulkan was still there, though it was apparently only an ordinary necklace here. That's right. He'd made a promise, sworn an oath to a feathered serpent. From the start, Aziraphale had been given no such choice.

And at the heart of all his endless questions was simply the desire to choose, wasn't it? 

Eyes blurry with tears, the demon reached out and took the blue vial. "This one."

The god’s expression but inscrutable, and yet the air around him seemed to soften. "Nothing happens by accident, child of Yahweh, and yet nothing is truly planned. I will await the next world, and you will take care of this one." Camazotz’s form shifted and shrank, until he was simply an old man, his face deeply creased with wrinkles, his hands gnarled and arthritic. He looked at Aziraphale, who was still fixed in place and staring ahead, and seemed to consider him. Then he looked back to Crowley. "I am sorry. I expect you won't forgive me, but I don't require your forgiveness. I will persist after this world ends - and in that, there is no escape for me. Luck and strength to you, _angelito_."

“Thank you,” the demon whispered brokenly, grasping his angel’s stone-like hand as he popped the cork free with his teeth.

***

When Crowley drank from the spiral-marked vial, the world swiftly tilted, once again dissolving into a pure white void. 

When his vision swirled back together, the demon was laying on his back, looking up at the inside of a waxed canvas tent. Someone, nearby, was screaming.

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Aziraphale’s voice, followed by rushed footsteps and the rustle of an opening tent flap. “Whatever is the matter, my lad?"

The missionary’s voice came next, shrill and shaking. "The Lord-! The Lord h-has visited upon me visions of horror and ill fate! This has been a fool's foray! I beg, brave companions, to let our company turn back and return me to my homeland."

The demon remained lying quietly in his tent, still wrapped up in his blankets. He heard the cries and commotion outside, distant and yet so familiar. They were back to the starting line, back before all of this absurdity and torment began... or rather, right when it nearly did. Edmund was alive and panicked, wanting to return home. Aziraphale was alive and restored, doing his best to comfort the young missionary. When he raised a hand to his head, Crowley found that his hair was shorter again, his keepsake ribbon gone. The amulet was still around his neck, but it still felt like a mundane bit of gold and jade, no longer filled with power - a reminder of oaths taken. Everything was back to normal, as promised, and his heart was shattered. He dropped an arm over his eyes and wept. 

But he couldn't weep for long; there was work to be done, and promises to be kept.

And it was a long way back to Europe.


	13. Blasphemous Rumors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short, bittersweet interlude - Aziraphale and Crowley return to England and their regularly scheduled programme.  
> Aziraphale goes back to Heaven's work, and Crowley faces the consequences of his choices.
> 
> Thank you to Joy_Shines for being our beta and editor!

The young missionary had stoutly insisted that they return to England at once, and Crowley couldn't have agreed more. He'd spent far too long in that deep jungle, its green no longer a comfort, and if he was very lucky, he'd never have to lay eyes on it again. On the way back to the coast, he made sure they didn't run into any snares or wild animals that might cause delays, and it wasn't long before the three of them were on a ship. Since they hadn’t planned to return so soon, they had to take a longer voyage than usual: from Puerto Barrios to Havana, then across the Atlantic to Cadiz, and finally up the European coast to Plymouth - altogether, it was a total of nearly three months at sea. 

Crowley, Aziraphale, and Edmund each had their own cabins (as there were few other passengers), and the demon quickly shut himself into his, wanting to be alone with his thoughts - and his brandy. Quite extraordinary amounts of brandy.

Edmund, while less asocial, was still recovering from his dreadful visions, and thus spent much of his time in his berth, sleeping, writing, or praying - and while Aziraphale visited him regularly (bringing meals, reminding him to change his clothes and rest, and the like), the angel was mostly alone. The crew was busy with running the ship and hardly fit companionship for someone so genteel, but he still tried to be friendly, helpful, a model passenger. All the same, he missed his friend.

Inasmuch as Aziraphale knew that Crowley could be moody, and that the demon valued his privacy and space, he could also tell when something wasn’t right. This wasn’t the usual ‘I need some time alone’ behaviour he’d learned to expect. He could sense an emotion he wasn’t used to feeling coming from Crowley’s cabin, something that felt like grief: an intense, incessant pang of despair and loss. But, he wondered, could demons even experience such a thing as grief? Was he just imagining it?

No. He’d been wrong about so many things, letting his presumptions get the better of him. And even though acceptance had been slow to sink in, the angel thought perhaps it was time to reevaluate what he thought he knew. Crowley, Aziraphale decided, _was_ his dearest friend. And something _was_ upsetting him - there had always been a residue of dissatisfaction and sadness around the other being, but this was far sharper: a distress call that he could not ignore. He’d tried knocking at Crowley’s cabin door, but it had always gone unanswered. In fact, it seemed as though each knock caused the distress to worsen. Seeing how he couldn’t exactly break down the door (without causing a scene), Aziraphale gave up on that method and simply kept an eye out, patiently waiting for the demon to make an appearance. He would, it turned out, have to wait a while.

The serpent knew when it was Aziraphale at his door, of course, but each visit only drove him further into despair. It reminded him painfully of a time (not so long ago) when the angel would skip the knock entirely and greet him with a cheeky, ravenous expression. He remembered the games, the banter, the passion, and the nights when his partner was the air that he breathed. The distance between them now was far too much to bear, and the thought of facing Aziraphale in close quarters made him feel ill. As for any other visitors (cabin boys and the like), they went completely unnoticed - the captain himself could be banging on the door and hollering that they were being boarded by pirates, and he wouldn't have lifted a finger. He was far too drunk and miserable to deal with anything that wasn’t the bottom of a bottle. 

But as was wont to happen after a month in a small room, Crowley grew restless. The cabin was saturated in the scent of salt and alcohol; the brandy was starting to taste foul, and he felt a little… no, _very_ bored. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to step out for a moment - get some fresh air, stretch his legs, see the sunset, play a prank or two. So, when the sun started going down, the demon cleaned himself up, loosely tied his hair back, and donned a simple overcoat and breeches, along with gloves, boots, and a woolen cape - all black, garments of mourning. His custom-made dark lenses had gone missing (probably lost forever in the jungle, a final ‘fuck you’ to cap off the journey), so he would have to keep his head down. When he felt adequately presentable, he slipped from his room and wandered aimlessly along the deck. At the least the brandy helped take the edge off the cold wind. He found a quiet spot amidships, between the deck and the main mast, where he was somewhat sheltered, and leaned against the railing, gazing out to sea, to that glittering horizon…

And there, within a minute, appeared Aziraphale. He was in a familiar turquoise coat with gold brocade and braided trim, the very one that had been left in a temple decorated with snakes, in a future that would not be. The angel stood close enough to be seen and heard, but tried to keep a safe gap between them. There was no way for him to know how the space echoed with hurt and longing. "I can still smell it," the angel observed, after a moment’s mental flailing for something meaningful to start the conversation with. He couldn't ask 'are you alright?', as Crowley obviously wasn't, nor could he demand to know why. Small talk was just as pointless - what would he even say? 'This is a nice boat'? Ridiculous. So he began with something in between an acknowledgement and a rib, hoping to catch Crowley enough off his script to talk to him.

The demon's breath caught in his throat when a sideways glance let him see that outfit, and it was so flattering and nostalgic that his chest hurt. Then he paused... did he really still smell like brandy? He supposed he had been practically bathing in it every day for the last month. Still, the angel was poking fun at him, and his natural reflex was to poke back. "Haven't ya heard? Y'take a lil' rag, soak it in alcohol, n' put it straight up your bum. New health craze. All the rage in Paris. Supposed t'purify your bowels or summit." He was slurring. Oh well.

"Oh, come now. No need for _that_." The angel's tone was only mildly chiding. "I know how much you hate purity." Searching Crowley's face, Aziraphale hoped desperately for something to work with and sighed as if resigned to deal with something challenging. He knew he could get the truth out of his friend if he pressed just right, but asking the right questions without making the demon lock himself back up - there was the trick of it. For the moment, he didn't ask anything, simply waiting out the quiet between them and wearing his Very Concerned face (the one he reserved for frightened animals and sick children, with his big liquid eyes aimed like cannon barrels at the demon).

"Ha." _You have no idea how much I hate purity_ , Crowley thought. _You have no idea how much I want your fist in my hair, or how much I want to rip that vest off with my teeth, or how much I want you to look at me with adoration and call me yours._ Good lord below. When had he turned into such a sap? After the silence had stretched out for awhile, and the sun was nearly set, he ventured to look Aziraphale's direction again and found his mouth quirking very slightly upward against his will. "For Hell's sake, angel, put tha' puppy-dog look away before y'hurt yourself,” he muttered. “Frankly, I’d b’more concerned about Edmund. Has he stopped havin' nightmares yet?"

The angel exhaled in a mildly exasperated way, but replied, "The man takes great comfort in prayer, and I do think he’ll recover. I don't know what he saw, or what caused it - he won’t tell me a thing about it.” 

_Probably a dreadful-looking bat covered in ink,_ Crowley thought, _or a bunch of those undead walking-dirt things, or a monster covered in eyes._ Camazotz was nothing if not creative. The demon nodded, then looked back out over the railing. "Mm. Good. Hate to think of th'poor bastard wakin' up every night inna cold sweat fer the res' of his life." As if there needed to be two souls so tormented on the same boat.  
  
Aziraphale continued, “To be honest, I'm not sorry he decided to turn back. I knew this entire venture was ill-fated the moment I heard the ship's food supply had been infested with beetles." Not that he suspected Crowley of causing such mischief - surely not.

Crowley smirked about the angel’s culinary woes. Infested with beetles, eh? He hadn't had a hand in that one, but frankly, it didn't surprise him. All it took was a couple of insect stowaways in someone's luggage, and then the food was as good as spoiled. “I expect you did something about that?”  
  
“Oh, well of course. I’d hate to fast the whole way back; it would draw unnecessary attention and all. So the beetles had to go.” They both chuckled lightly at that, and the angel looked out over the railing as well, eyes tracing patterns of white chevrons the ship was casting across the water’s surface. He needed a minute to gather his courage, to frame his words just so. "It’s not that I want to pry into your business,” Aziraphale insisted (or, more accurately, lied). “But... I thought you'd be happier to be going back."

The inquiry made Crowley’s stomach tighten. Gods, he wished he still had his dark lenses, because his face was showing too much right now. "I _am_ happy t'be goin' back,” he mumbled, and that was the truth. “I never wanna see tha' bloody place again. It jus'... jus' took a lot outta me, y’know?” The sun was down now, and the stars were bright diamond pins in the velvet sky. He didn't want to look at them. "Right then, I'm freezin' my arse off. M'goin' back in." Pushing back off the railing, he staggered past the angel.

There was something in Crowley's expression that Aziraphale could not parse. The fellow looked utterly gutted for some reason, like someone who'd just watched their dog die. "My dear?"

The demon paused, swaying very slightly. "Mm?" _Stop. Stop being worried about me. Stop calling me that_. Even so, it soothed him. Just a little. A breeze fluttered over the deck, ice cold, and he shivered and drew his cape around himself.

"Well, you've- and I'm not accusing you, but you've been... you've not been yourself. Something's wrong." The angel didn't seem to feel the cold as Crowley did, and he stood resolutely as the demon huddled to shield himself from the wind. 

“M’fine,” Crowley grumbled. “I’m just..." Miserable. Cold. Lonely. "...tired."

Aziraphale made a face that suggested doubt, but all he said was “Well, at least join me for a warm drink before you turn in. There's beef pudding and hot tea below the deck." He made an ‘after you’ gesture, hoping Crowley would agree (as he almost always did) to the offer of a cozy place to drink and banter.

Crowley wasn't remotely interested in beef pudding, but the hot tea had a certain appeal. At least it would be a change of pace from brandy. And Aziraphale... cared? That he was cold? Of course he did. Not everything had changed. “Somewhere off to th'side. Can't have people seein' my eyes," he mumbled with a tiny sigh, and they went below deck to the galley and settled down. Crowley chose an empty spot in the corner, his back to the wall. 

Aziraphale brought him a steaming copper and wood cup, as well as a bowl of dried fruit and cheese. He couldn’t ignore the dark circles under Crowley’s eyes, how pale and gaunt the demon’s face had become in a very short time. The angel then sat down with a portion of the dinner pudding, which apparently tasted about as good as it looked (and smelled): fatty and salty. It was more moved around the plate than eaten. "It'll be spring when we get to Plymouth," he said, attempting small talk, and then made an agitated little noise. “Oh bugger this,” he huffed, pushing his food away and focusing intently on his friend. “Crowley, I am sorry, but I must ask: Did you see something in the jungle?” His voice was hushed, but urgent. “Some sort of vision, or a dream, like Edmund?"

The demon kept his gaze fixed on his tea even as Aziraphale lost his composure, started asking more direct questions. He cradled the cup in his hands, absorbing the heat, seeming to contemplate meaning in the dark brew, searching his memory. Crowley had to bear the burden of knowledge and promises alone, yes, but was he also sworn to silence? It wasn’t as though anyone would believe him if he told the truth. But, a vision, hmm... yes, that was an angle he could work with. "Nnyeah," he mumbled, still avoiding eye contact. "Long one. Started out nice, an' then got right nasty. Felt like... like years passed."

"Oh, that sounds _terrible_ ,” the angel said fretfully. “You were in the tent, and I thought you were sleeping and- oh of course you weren’t! Not with all the ruckus going on. I'm so very sorry, I was distracted with the boy or I would’ve woken you." 

Having Aziraphale fuss and fret over him made the faintest glow ignite in the demon’s chest. “I _was_ sleeping, at first. Don' rightly remember when it changed into somethin’ more.”

Aziraphale nodded and took a sip of his tea (it was _real_ tea, with a chip of preserved lemon floating in it, which he appreciated), but then he looked at the cup thoughtfully and asked, "Do you think it was something in those brewing herbs the guide put in our rations? Some sort of human magic? I used the last of my black tea the evening before, but Edmund had that herbal concoction - did you drink any of it?"

Crowley remembered the herbal mix tasting just fine, if a bit strong, and not causing any hallucinations or visions... but Aziraphale didn't have to know that. “I did drink some, now tha' you mention it. Real earthy, ya drink it from a gourd? Felt kinda strange after, but didn't think anythin' of it, since it put a bounce in my step."

The angel didn't look convinced, but he was willing to consider it a likely explanation. "We should be wary, then, if there are humans whose magic can affect demons like that. Goodness, I can't imagine." Surely nothing as simple as a drug would cause Crowley to experience _years_ of torment overnight - it had to be witchcraft. "I really should have guessed - I'd heard that the people of the New World were competent magic users. Oh, I do hope you're alright. We should probably make sure it's completely gone before you start turning purple or your toes fall off. You poor dear." Aziraphale’s tone went soft, as did his expression. “No wonder you've been drinking so much."

Yes, Crowley had been drinking excessively, and he didn't plan to stop until the ship dropped anchor in Plymouth - and probably not even then. He wasn't sure when he'd stop. But at least he'd found a way to communicate some of the wretched carnival sideshow happening inside his head - for Crowley, that never came easily. "I think it'll be all right. Nothin's fallen off me yet... 'cept my mind, but we knew tha' was gonna happen sooner or later." When Aziraphale reached over and gave him a light pat on the back of his hand - the same reassuring gesture the angel had always offered - he reflexively turned his palm up and caught the fingers between his own, seeming to study them. "M'glad I was just dreaming. It was so... you were... you-" Then panic seeped into his face, and he abruptly let go of the angel's hand. "Sssorry, dove. Got carried away there."

Aziraphale blinked. _Dove_? He opened his mouth, then closed it again, confused by the nickname and the way Crowley had taken his hand - so tenderly, at first, before jolting back as if shocked. He wasn't surprised to feature in his friend's dreams; Crowley appeared in his often enough[5], though he did wonder what his particular role was in this one. What he knew for certain was that, whatever had happened, it had traumatized his companion rather badly - and Aziraphale, a guardian by nature, would not let a friend (even a frustrating one) go through such a terrible experience on his own. “Quite alright, dear boy. I... will help you, if you’ll allow it. It's rather my fault you were there at all, so really it's the least I can do."

Inwardly, Crowley was panicking; he had let his guard down for five seconds and already he’d wound up calling Aziraphale by a pet name and grabbed at his hand like a jackass. He couldn’t let that happen again - it was too dangerous. The minions of Heaven or Hell could appear at any time, and this time they had nowhere to hide - there was no sacred cave here, no safety net, no... no _Alone_ . His fingers fidgeted with the edge of his cape. “I'm... I appreciate that, dov- _angel_ , but I doubt there's much y'can do. Human magic, it's... tricky. An' you have yer own issues to fuss over, with Heaven's arm halfway up yer arse. Don't worry 'bout me." Crowley recognized that he probably could use a helping hand to get through this, but he wasn't sure his heart could bear it if that hand was attached to Aziraphale.

Still keeping his voice down, Aziraphale clucked his tongue. "Oh, don’t I know it. They've been faffing around with this new 'initiative' to 'improve efficiency'." The implied quotes were pronounced in the most obnoxious way he could muster. “They want to have me in one place so they can keep an eye on me. They think all I do down here is read novels and pleasure myself."

“Geh,” noted Crowley, trying to be sympathetic and trying equally hard _not_ to picture Aziraphale doing any kind of self-pleasuring.

The angel rolled his eyes dramatically, unaware of his poor choice of words. “As if it’s an affront to Her to enjoy the nicer things in Her world. Honestly! I do more work in a year than most of them do in a century. Not that they’d know, since they can’t be bothered to experience being on Earth. They’d hardly know how difficult it is, now that there's so many humans."

Crowley saw the conversation veering away from himself and jumped at the chance to keep it going that way - any topic other than his ‘dreams’ or how much help he actually needed was welcome. "Honestly!" he echoed in affirmation. "Bunch of white-suit pricks pretending they know everything. There's millions of humans now, and half of ‘em keep inventing new ways to kill themselves. It's like bein’ a nanny for a house full of screaming children, which is on fire." For the first time in a month, the demon's mouth quirked, in the way that it did when he was trying not to grin. _There you are_ , he thought. There was his fussy, bastard angel, with his indomitable energy and sass.

"Oh, Crowley." The tone of the angel’s voice softened with the fond way he said the demon's name. "Here I am grousing about my work, when I ought to be comforting _you_ .” When his friend opened his mouth to protest, he waved a hand to cut him off. “No, I won’t hear it. I'm meant to help and heal and safekeep those who are in pain, and nobody ever said that couldn't include you. So, Upstairs can complain about it if they like. They always find _something,_ you know.." Aziraphale chuckled then, in that particular way that precedes a soft 'oh you' from someone trapped in an abusive relationship, who fears facing the truth more than the status quo. It was the long-abiding sound of someone who had never allowed himself to think there could be any other way. Harboring criticism of Heaven was as futile as asking questions - and though he was lucky enough to have avoided asking any that were dangerous, he'd already been roundly humiliated for it. If he could distract himself from that through acts of care, so much the better. "You _are_ my friend, Crowley, and I won't let you be alone in this."

The gentle voice that bore his name and made assurances of friendship was like a lance through the chest. It was so tender, so fond, that sometimes it allowed Crowley to crave more. But this was a different timeline; for all intents and purposes, the life he'd lived Before, the life where Aziraphale loved him, truly had been a dream... but Aziraphale had also suffered Before. They both had, tremendously. None of that was here, at least not for Aziraphale - not for the one who mattered (which was a statement the average future self-help book would tell him was "problematic"). This was his reality now, his second chance, and he knew the angel's friendship wasn't something to be taken lightly. "Yeah, well, at least tha's an easy job. N'case you haven't noticed, I'm a goddamn _delight_ to be around, at all times."

"Thank you, Orestes[6], I'm sure."Aziraphale lifted his cup, winked and made a subtle gesture below the table, and their tea turned to wine. "I won't argue, but nonetheless. If you should... if you ever need something, you can come to me." And he meant it. Crowley was, in fact, far more delightful company than most angels he knew - especially those who outranked him. And the demon had been around quite a bit longer than any human. He really hadn't been given much choice in his Earth-sitting duty, if he had to be honest with himself (maybe someday but not this one), and he had to count himself quite lucky that the one person he could stand to spend any time at all with was… well, unexpectedly charming.

"Same for you, Pylades[6]," Crowley chuckled, lifting his own cup in response. “If you need something, anything, come to me. Whatever you need, angel.” He lifted his own cup in response to the angel's words, and a soft _clink_ sounded when the clay sides touched in a toast. Not long after that, the demon returned to his cabin, locked the door, and promptly resumed his drinking (after insisting that the brandy morph into scotch), along with masturbating furiously to a fantasy of Aziraphale wearing nothing but that sly bastard grin and mounting him until he couldn't walk. He didn't come out again for the rest of the voyage.

When the ship finally docked in Plymouth, demon and angel said their farewells, and Aziraphale left to escort Edmund (whose color and disposition were much improved) back to the Somerset abbey. Crowley returned to his London flat, relieved to find it exactly as he'd left it - even his plants were still healthy. He drizzled water into all their pots, and then threw the watering can across the room, where it struck the wall hard enough to dent the metal. "Yeah, exactly as it wa _sss_ ," he hissed bitterly into the empty space. "Exactly as it bloody was." In that moment, he hated everything and wished he'd chosen the red vial.

***

Over the decades that followed, the demon returned to his usual routine of temptations, inconveniences, and even a few outright malicious tamperings. Left once again to his own devices, Crowley fixated on his oath to Kukulkan and began to influence the minds of skeptics towards some “alternative” thoughts about God/s and religion (Jeremy Bentham, Ludwig Büchner, John Dewey, and Friedrich Engels, to name a few). As perspectives began to shift, arguments were made and books were published, and one 'J. Crow' was the most prominent among those authors. Hell was, as he anticipated, quite pleased with his work, and it even earned him a commendation. He couldn’t give less of a damn. Quite deliberately, he didn’t see much of Aziraphale after the voyage ended, drowning himself in work and assorted liquors. His foolish, weary heart was broken, and it took all his effort to keep the rest of himself together. There was one time, just one, where he met with the angel, with a request for holy water. For insurance. Aziraphale had flatly refused.

_“I’m not giving you a suicide pill, Crowley! Do you know what trouble I could get into if they knew I’d been fraternizing with-”_ _  
_ _  
_ _Everything in his chest went ice-cold, a numbness to protect his already wounded heart. “Fraternizing?!”_

They had not parted on good terms. Crowley stalked out of St. James’ Park and immediately booked passage to mainland Europe, making his way to Nuremberg, Germany. Once there, he made a bulk payment on a tiny apartment in the St. Leonhard district (under the guise of being very ill and needing space to recover), drank an entire case of German beer, swallowed a handful of valerian root tablets, and all but collapsed into his bed. 

***

Upon returning to London (only a few months after Crowley), Aziraphale began working on setting up his greatly-anticipated bookshop. The purchase of the property had gone through, and he opened its doors to the public in the very first year of the new century. It had been at the worst possible moment, when Gabriel and his hench-cherub were congratulating him for a medal and a transfer he did not want, that he spotted Crowley in the doorway, gift in hand, scowling at the backs of the two Archangels. It was also the last time he’d see Crowley for sixty-two years.

When he finally saw Crowley again, even though it was only a brief meeting for tea and pastries, Aziraphale did not mention how concerned he'd been, how he'd fretted and blamed himself for the deterioration of their friendship just as it seemed they were finally getting closer. Instead, he had tried to be delicate, extended an invitation, and was gratified when it was accepted. and avoided talking about anything of true importance, but Aziraphale was still happy to see his friend. He felt hopeful that things would get better - no, they had to. They had their tea, traded pleasantries, and arranged to meet again in a week, at St. James’ park.

The short conversation they'd had there, the written request, had sent a lance straight through Aziraphale's heart. To ask him for _that_ \- of course Crowley would, of course he'd want a friend to help him end his pain. The angel knew he'd been suffering since they'd left the New World, but- but how _could_ he? If the demon had any clue how much Aziraphale cared for him, how much Crowley's self-destruction would devastate him, surely he never would have asked. Surely that meant he didn't know. 

And Aziraphale didn't know what to tell him, or how. He couldn't look at Crowley a second longer, couldn't handle trying to confront the only being he had any real bond with - the only one who listened to him like he wasn't a ridiculous, pathetic, sorry excuse for an angel - so he’d been the first to storm off. Despite his inner turmoil, he kept tabs on Crowley’s movements; when he heard that the demon had left England, the worry that somehow he would find another way to end himself drove Aziraphale to follow.

It took him quite a while to find his friend, for Crowley had holed himself up in a tiny flat in Germany and shielded himself with layers of wards. But once he did uncover the demon’s hiding place, Aziraphale visited monthly to clear away the dust, maintain the magical bulwark around the property, and keep the human neighbors from wondering about an apparently unoccupied flat. The likeness of the sparse bedchamber to a tomb was not lost on him, and he couldn’t bear the thought that the sleeping serpent might not open his eyes again. For over sixty years, during each visit, he would sit on the edge of Crowley's bed, brush out his quickly-growing hair, and talk to him - and every time, before he left, he would press his lips to one of those slender hands and whisper, “I'm so sorry, my dear. Please come back.”

***

For another six decades, all Crowley did was dream. He dreamed of the life Before. He dreamed of gods and magic, of feathered serpents and laughing moons. He dreamed of Spanish villas and warm fires, of passionate whispers and strong fingertips, of safe places and storm-blue eyes. He dreamed of being loved and kept. He dreamed of Aziraphale. One time, when he drifted back to semi-consciousness, he thought he smelled traces of the angel in his flat... but surely that was just a dream as well.

When he woke again, another century had unfurled beneath him (according to the papers), and the demon reluctantly decided that it would behoove him to greet it. The 1920s were, as it turned out, a fecund era of curiosity and discovery, and it was entirely too easy to spread his own theories about the nonexistence of gods and magic. His _nom de plume_ and literary pursuits were abandoned entirely as he focused his attention on inspiring other humans to write the critical works that would create a wave of something called "atheism" (and several off-shoots thereof, like deism and agnosticism) for centuries to come.

Then, rumors of war began to circulate, and Anthony J. Crowley made an appearance when he applied for an undercover position with British military intelligence. Normally, he wouldn't have bothered with that sort of thing, but he’d heard whispers in Soho that a certain "Mr. Fell" had been unwittingly recruited by a rather shady organization. The long rest had given his memories time to settle, and Crowley knew that he couldn't shake the desire to protect the angel from harm. 

So, on a fateful night in 1941, when air-raid sirens shrieked over London and the air echoed with distant screams, one man-shaped serpent in a fancy woolen suit unceremoniously jitterbugged into an old church (burning the shite out of his feet, thank you very much) to save a cornered dove. 

And while he was at it, a bag of rare books.

  
***

5Sometimes they were very platonic appearances. Other times, the demon was wearing nothing but bunches of grapes and teasing him about losing his sword. Much, much later, Aziraphale would read a book by a certain cigar-smoking psychologist and have a lot to think about concerning that.[return to text]

6The names Orestes and Pylades are both in reference to one of the few pairings in a Greek drama that made it out alive and lived happily together - in this case, a male hero and his "cousin". In this case, Aziraphale is also referencing Crowley's similarilty to Orestes, who endured many trials of madness and purification to be with his lover.[return to text]


	14. A Rock And A Hard Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which an angel and a demon reunite and talk, a lot. Like a -lot-.  
> This is a little side-journey into communication that gets close to being healthy, but... well... they are idiots. You might consider this TLDR if you're here for plot and/or smut.
> 
> Thank you to Joy_Shines for being our beta and editor!

_ "A little demonic miracle of my own. Lift home?"  
  
*** _

Aziraphale felt as shell-shocked as anyone might expect while standing where an actual bomb had just gone off, and yet it had nothing to do with the explosion. Everything was different; everything had changed in the space of a single lingering touch. He knew Crowley had risen from his bed[7], but it had been nearly a decade and he’d heard nary a word. Aziraphale had been trying to accept that his oldest and dearest friend (wherever he was) no longer cared for his company, and he'd been quite convinced he deserved that. But there he was, limping his way back out of the church, despite the fact that its ground was no longer hallowed. Crowley had risked his own corporation (and possibly his own existence) not only to rescue Aziraphale, but to be kind to him after how cruel and judgmental he'd been in the past. The angel stared numbly into the middle distance, his heart in his throat, absolutely demanding that the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes stay where they were, that they dare not overflow.

He heard Crowley ask if he were coming, and he shook himself out of it, picking his way through the rubble to join his old friend in what was, quite frankly, a gorgeous vehicle. 

Aziraphale could see how proud of it Crowley was, of having kept it pristine even in a war zone, and he settled himself gingerly into the passenger seat, satchel in his lap. 

The Bentley had been a spur-of-the-moment purchase when the cars were first produced in the 1930s. Horse-and-buggy setups were out; four-wheeled gasoline chariots were in. Crowley had seen her sitting in the lot, shiny and sleek like a bullet, and knew he had to have her. She handled like a dream and purred like a kitten, and her radio always picked up whatever music Crowley wanted to hear: the ideal companion for a lonely, besotted demon. 

The same lonely, besotted demon was behind the wheel, driving his angel away from the Blitz as fast as he could go. He'd said "lift home", but he was driving the opposite direction of home, because home was in the path of falling bombs. Fuck, his feet hurt. Neither of them said a word for a long while, until they were well out of London, and he was glad for it. The Bentley was quietly playing some classical piece to fill the silence.

Aziraphale looked out the window, watching the dark fields fly by. They were coasting at a speed that frightened and thrilled him, but he soon got used to it, finding optimism in the rumble and purr of the machine. Breaking the tension, he offered, "I've missed you."

_ I've missed you _ . The demon's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Gods damn, just when he thought his heart was safe again. “Missed you, too, angel. Have you... been well?" Smooth as fucking butter, he was.

"Better than I've been in a while," Aziraphale replied. "I've been trying to do good - protect people, make some sort of difference. But you saw how that panned out. I haven't been given permission to intervene. Once again, they want me to stand aside and watch as something terrible happens." He paused, winding his hands around the handle on his satchel. "Thank y- ah. Thank Heaven that someone… happened to bomb the church." He'd deflected, but the gratitude was in every word.

"It was a blight on the landscape anyways," the demon quipped. He could hear what was implied in Aziraphale’s tone, but he was unable to accept it. Not yet. "Even so, it was mighty lucky that only a few Nazis died. Could've been worse. A lot worse." They were on the M3, near Broadmere, when Crowley finally felt safe enough to listen to the cries of his blistered feet. "Okay, I think we're far enough out that a bomb isn't gonna fall in our laps. I've gotta pull over for a tick." They pulled into a small rest area (which was really more an extra wide patch of asphalt shoulder with a sign than an ‘area’) and he got out of the car and sat on a nearby guardrail to peel his shoes and socks off. The soles of his feet were heavily blistered and oozing, and he hissed softly when the night air hit the wounded skin. "Ow,  _ ow _ , sod it all..."

The irritation that had hovered around the angel's features on having a church called 'a blight' faded instantly when he saw what Crowley was doing. His fair face paled on seeing exactly how much damage his friend’s poorly-planned consecrated jitterbug had done. "Oh! My dear, your poor feet!" He reflexively reached out, wanting to offer aid. "I don't know if I can heal them. I could try, but it might make it worse. Oh, what have you done, you silly demon?!" 

"I wasn't hoppin’ around like a bloody rabbit for fun, angel," the serpent muttered. "Beach on bare feet, like I said." Guess he'd left them on the ground for too long near the end. He took his hat off and tossed it aside, then slid up his glasses so he could study his injuries better. Hmm, couldn't miracle these away. Bugger. He'd have to-

Before the other being could protest, Aziraphale knelt down next to Crowley, summoning a first aid kit from a military supply depot in Farmborough. Just a small miracle, merely a relocation - he'd been doing it all through the war (a bit of iodine and gauze here, some soap and food there). In all the chaos, it was unlikely anyone would begrudge him a little extra grace for a good deed. And this, too, was a good deed that needed doing. “This is more than hot sand, Crowley.” It was a mild scolding, disgruntled but fond, as Aziraphale often was around the demon. “Please, keep still.”

Crowley felt a squeeze around his heart and wondered in passing if he could escape by throwing himself backwards off the guard rail. "Angel, you don't have to- just give it here. I can do it. Won't take but a second, and then we can go."

"Well I  _ know  _ you can, dear, but you hurt yourself to help me, and I really... I would really appreciate it if you'd let me do this." Aziraphale’s voice cracked a little on the last few words, creaking under the weight of guilt he hadn't been able to settle in over a hundred and seventy years. Nearly two centuries of being unable to bridge that gap stood between them, and now - against all odds- he had a second chance and he  _ had  _ to be there. He needed to help, to be able to do something for Crowley. Opening the little first aid case and pulling out a tin box of ointment and some clean cotton bandaging, the angel's eyes sought Crowley's imploringly. "Alright?"

The demon was going to refuse, was going to deflect the request with his usual snark, until he heard that tiny crack in Aziraphale's voice. They hadn't seen each other properly (or ever) since their spat in St. James' Park, and he'd still gone running into a bloody church just to cover this bastard's arse. Again. Now his feet hurt, and Aziraphale wanted to help. Damn it. "All right, all right,” he huffed softly, sitting back a bit to give the angel more moonlight to work with.

With a relieved breath, the angel carefully and tenderly did his best to dress Crowley's burned flesh, applying the cooling ointment and gauze, and then layers of bandaging and tape to help cushion the demon's soles. This went along with a minimal amount of wincing and fussing from the serpent, who was already feeling better, although he couldn't tell if that was because of the ointment or the intense rush of dopamine his poor touch-starved body released at having Aziraphale's hands on his skin. When he was done, Aziraphale straightened and sat on the rail as well. He was quiet for a long while, looking up at the bright, starry sky, and Crowley couldn’t bring himself to break the moment. 

But, as all things do, it came to an end anyway. And the angel asked, "Crowley? Why did you come for me?"

Crowley had just opened his mouth to offer his thanks for the care, but snapped it shut with an audible click at that question. "I..." Color started creeping up his nape; thank Someone it was dark out, because nowadays, his hair was too short to hide it. "I heard rumors around Soho that someone shady was visiting you and a few other people in the area, but that they’d been seen around your shop more than a couple times - and I thought 'oh no, the damn angel's gone and gotten mixed up in something' so I... kind of... tailed you. When you left with that woman." The serpent was, if nothing else, an expert at talking around important things.

"Oh," said the angel, blinking, then flushed very slightly with a downward glance. "You've always looked out for me." He sounded small and regretful, eyes fixed on the first aid kit in his hands. "Even now. And... I'm not completely stupid." He stopped there. So much sat between them, brick by brick, things unsaid. _ I feel your love. I know your kindness. I don't deserve it. I've hurt you. I want to tell you you didn't deserve it. I want to tell you how good you are. I want to tell you how I feel. I can't. I can't. I-  _ "I'm glad you did. It's been lonely without you. I don't have a lot of other people to... spend my time with. Unsurprisingly, there aren't many angels who want to play backgammon and chat with me, and most of them would have a conniption fit if they knew about the other ‘human’ things I enjoy - drinking, dancing, games of chance. They're no fun whatsoever." He smiled meekly.

The demon carefully tugged his socks and shoes back on as the angel spoke, just to give himself something to do with his hands. He didn't have a lot of other people to be with, either. Oh, there were work associates, bosses, humans he kept around for fun when the itch for intimacy got too powerful to ignore - but no one he'd consider a true friend. Not a single soul besides Aziraphale. There was so much he wanted to say, all the things he’d said in the other life.  _ I've loved you since Eden. I've wanted you since Rome. I've been selfish. I'm not worth it. I'm rotten and useless. I still want you. I can't say it. I can't.  _ "It's been lonely without you, too," he finally said. "I really..."  _ Missed you. _ "...missed drinking and shooting the breeze with you." He sighed into his hands, and then looked at his car, an idea dawning.    
  
If Aziraphale could gamble, well, by Jove, so could he. "Hey, do you... do you want to go on a drive? I mean, I know we're already on one, but let's keep going. There's supposed to be this- this newfound monument or something in Salisbury, and a cafe, and we could make a day trip out of it. Just fuck off together for awhile."

"I'd like that,” replied the angel in a rush of breath. “I've been so anxious about my shop, but I've done all I can do to keep it safe, I suppose. It couldn't hurt. Everyone's attention is on this damnable war; they won't notice if I take a little time." Aziraphale hesitated, glancing down at the demon’s shoes and the injuries they concealed. "Are your feet alright enough to drive? I could take a turn. I mean, I did learn how." Granted, it was a flatbed truck that maxed out at thirty miles per hour, going up and down dirt tracks to collect and deliver vegetables from the war farms, but it was technically driving.

"My feet will be fine now, thanks to you." Crowley felt a little lighter, a little brighter. He needed to get further away from the capital. He needed to not be thinking about the death and destruction happening only forty miles away. Most of all, he needed the warm, healing company of his best friend, his angel. "Let's be off, then. We should get there before sunrise if we don't dawdle." 

They got back in the car, and the Bentley seemed to hum contentedly as they pulled back onto the highway. Less than an hour later, they'd reached Salisbury. A quick stop at a petrol station[8] got them directions to a side road off the A303, which led them bumpily along until they reached a wide clearing. The demon frowned slightly as he stepped out and closed the car door. "Why, it's just a great pile of rocks. Was hopin' it'd be more impressive than that."

Aziraphale's reaction was markedly different. He stood next to the car and gaped at the arrangement of stones, the way the dawn light lit them, turning them to gold. "My goodness…" He started to walk up the hill and was met by a soft wave of love and reverence, making the angel stop and drink it in. "This is... There's something truly special here. Oh my, I’d say that’s _ quite  _ impressive!" He looked over his shoulder at Crowley. "Don't you feel it?"

As he got closer to the monument, Crowley had to admit that the way the stones were positioned to catch and reflect the sunlight was a little impressive. And how everything was arranged in a near-perfect circle, that was- he stopped dead in his tracks. A circle, a ring of stones, a ring of stones and an altar, a ring of stones and a god of death, don't go in it, _ don't go in-  _ "Don't go in there!" He snatched the back of the angel's collar, eyes stretched wide with panic and images unseen, hands shaking. "Don't go in there, dove, it's dangerous, don't, don't…!"

"Wh- ah? Crowley?" Aziraphale stepped back to ease the wrinkling of his overcoat. "What's this about?" He turned to face his companion and blinked at the stark fear he saw there. "Crowley? What is it? Is there something there?" Turning again, the angel scanned the hilltop, but he could see nothing more threatening than a small group of herons hunting mice down the meadow.

Green, everything was that thick, noxious green, and the circle was surrounded by webbed fungi, and a grating, rumbling voice was in his ears. "Circle’s dangerous, don't go in," he rasped, eyes becoming glassy at this point. "We need to run, dove, we need to get away, hurry-!" The gripping hand began to pull as Crowley backpedaled, fully intending to forcibly haul Aziraphale back to the car.

Aziraphale let Crowley pull him back down the hill, to where the ground was level, before taking the demon's wrist and halting them both. When the angel decided he wasn't taking another step, he wasn't. "Alright, alright! Please tell me what the problem is." He had noticed what Crowley was calling him - that little pet name that slipped from his friend’s lips in moments of weakness - but he decided to chew on the meaning of that some other time. "Talk to me. What is it?"

"Wha-" The demon looked incredulous in the midst of his panic, vainly pulling against the angel's firm grip. "What do you mean, 'what is it'? Can't you see it? Please, just- fuck, just come on! I'm trying to keep you safe!"

"I don't see anything troubling! Is it the stones?” Aziraphale glanced back at the monument, all lit up in sunlight. It didn't look frightening at all, quite the opposite in fact; the circle was permeated with a warm and welcoming aura. He could almost see humans dancing in the circle with flowers wreathed around their heads. “I thought you wanted to come here - oh, fine, I'll go back to the car with you. But then I want you to explain this to me." 

"Nothing trou-" Crowley was about to burst a blood vessel, and then paused with a frown. "Nothing?" His head was hurting, but the terrifying malachite vision was dissolving, and there was Stonehenge, sitting quietly in the morning sun. "There's nothing there?" His heartbeat was still pounding in his ears, but he'd stopped pulling at Aziraphale to squint at the landmark again. ".... right, there's... there's nothing there." He let go and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Sorry."

"Crowley?" Aziraphale let go of his friend's wrist and frowned, rubbing his hands together as if the demon's skin had scalded him - although of course it hadn't. It had just been so long since they'd touched. "That didn't sound like nothing... Please talk to me."

Scuffing his shoe in the grass, the demon searched for an explanation that didn't sound completely mental. "Not here," he finally whispered. It was too open. He needed to see if his initial hunch about Stonehenge was right. "Let's go to the monument first, and then I'll tell you."

"If you say so." Aziraphale sighed, and started back up the hill. He held his tongue until they reached the outer circle, and there he stopped again to glance at Crowley, to see if he was about to panic again. "Are you sure?"

_ Calm down, calm down. You don't need to be losing your shit twice in the same day _ . Mercifully, when they approached the circle again, the monument was just a monument.  _ Look, see: the stones aren't touching all the way around. It's not a perfect circle. Everything is fine _ . "Yeah." He tipped his head up, surveying the enormous stones. A low, subtle vibration was coming from between the front two, almost like a doorway. He stepped between them and into the ring.

The angel followed, and he gave a little shiver as he felt the stones' energy. "Oh, how sad,” he murmured. "There's so much love here, but it's damaged and lonely now. People don't love it like they used to. Poor old thing." He turned to Crowley. "And it's quite friendly. Are you really afraid of it?"

The serpent shook his head. "No." That was for certain. There was nothing scary at all about Stonehenge; it was a testament to rowdy but harmless festivals and rituals of civilizations past. In fact, the familiar buzz and following silence greeted him like a long-lost friend. "No, it wasn't this I was afraid of. But before I say anything about that, I want to test something." He glanced at his angel friend. "You feel it, right? How it's different in here?"

"Yes, humans have poured generations of care and faith into this place. The stones are saturated with the power of their worship." Aziraphale then reached out and touched one of the plinths, chuckling at the ticklish vibration that echoed into him. "It's almost a living thing. And you were trying to tell me something about it, weren't you?"

This was where it got tricky, and Crowley made a string of muttery, incoherent noises while he parsed his thoughts. "Yeah, but it wasn't... erm... it wasn't this that I was afraid of, either. This part, this is why I wanted to come here in the first place. It's, um, holy ground of a sort. Dedicated to pagan gods by humans. And it's very possible that we could be... hidden here because of that."

"Well, I imagine they  _ think  _ it's holy, but they were heathen, and you can't have Holy Ground without God's influence. Besides, you'd be hopping about again on your poor burnt feet!" Aziraphale fretted and took off his hat, fingering the brim of it between both hands. "It's empowered, but surely not - well, and what do you mean 'hidden'?"

Almost as an afterthought, the demon mimicked his friend and removed his own hat. Right, actual pagan gods weren't A Thing for Aziraphale in this timeline - for now. "I mean that no one can see us or hear us while we're in here.” He tipped his chin upward briefly. “Not even Her." Then he sighed lightly, seeing the angel’s incredulous expression. "Look, I know it sounds crazy, but even you have to admit that there's something peculiar about this place."

"Crowley, that's simply not possible. I admit, I do feel an unusual energy here, but there is  _ nothing _ and  _ nobody _ that She does not see." Aziraphale walked into the inner circle of stones, and looked up at the sky. Surely the Almighty was able to see through a little manmade monument. "She is omniscient, there is no hiding from Her sight." The angel shook his head and put his hat back on. "She knows I've spent centuries wondering why She even bothered to ask me about that sword. But I've had to accept that She had Her reasons."

_ So She actually did nudge him about that _ . The thought was dry. As much as it chafed at him when Aziraphale recited the words he'd been trained to believe, Crowley had to remind himself that he, too, once believed the same thing about Yahweh... even if he was already aware that She was a wanker. "Okay, then," he replied, rocking back and forth lightly on his heels. "Let's test it."

"Test it?" Aziraphale didn't sound angry or upset by the idea - his natural reaction was to wonder where this was going to lead them, but the angel was also tentative. "How do you propose we do that? Oh- I could try to contact the Metatron, I suppose. But if I don't have a good reason, he'll nip my wings for wasting their time."

Internally, Crowley wiggled. Ah, his angel was ever so curious, tapdancing on the line of heresy despite his hesitance. "Well, the easiest way would be for each of us to say something problematic, and then see what happens. Nothing too bad," he added hastily, waving a hand. "Just enough to get someone's attention. You can say I provoked you, if it comes to it."

"A minor offense, hm? Oh, if you're just pulling my leg to get me in trouble, I will have  _ words  _ for you, my dear." Aziraphale folded his arms and tapped a foot on the hard-packed ground. "But I suppose... I could think of something to say that'd get their attention.[9]" So he took a slow breath and held it for several seconds before saying, "Gabriel's taste in fashion is utterly horrible. Lately he's been going about in this terrible baggy suit. He looks like a half-deflated balloon." And then... he waited.

A snort escaped the demon's mouth before he could stop it. Of all the things, he really shouldn't have been surprised that Aziraphale, that anachronistic bastard, was criticizing the fashion choices of others[10]. All the same, it was a direct insult to Heaven's top dog, so he also waited. Nothing happened. Not even a breeze. That's promising. "Hmm. Okay, ramp it up a notch. Maybe they just decided to ignore that one - wasn't that bad."

"Oh, you're right. Gabriel's not listening in personally. He has assistants to do that. I doubt they consider a snarky critique of his wardrobe worth reporting me for. Let me think." The angel pondered and shifted his weight from foot to foot, "You know who else has a flaming sword? Iophiel. She was the guard outside the main gate of Eden. That's why I had to let the humans out via an alternate exit, you see. Otherwise, she'd have spotted them. And I was thinking, you know, Iophiel hasn't used her sword in millennia. But I'm down here on Earth, and one day there's going to be some real need to fight... I really should have a sword. So I was thinking I'd sneak into her office and ... er, ‘borrow’ it -  _ without asking _ !" Oh, that would get him a stern talking-to, alright. He swallowed, hoping it wouldn't be too harsh. He could say he didn't mean it; it was just a ruse, really, he was weaving a net of lies to trap a demon! "Oh dear." He glanced upward again through the ring of stones, silently rehearsing his excuses... 

Having very clearly insinuated that he'd try to sneak off with something belonging to a superior, a weapon that only a select few were permitted to wield, was no small matter and would definitely ping the radar of... whoever was listening upstairs these days. And yet there was nothing. Crowley continued to rock slowly on his heels, feeling excitement begin to bubble in his stomach. Nothing. Silence. He let that knowledge sink into the angel's brain.

Aziraphale coughed and huffed, "I'm sure she's just busy." At the very least, the record-keepers, Pravuil or Mebahiah, would come to tell him off, wouldn't they?

"Right, that's a negative on your end. My turn." Crowley hummed softly, thinking. "Well, if we're bashing our bosses, then all the dukes of Hell can sit on giant, pointy sticks. They have no creativity at all and probably couldn't find a toothbrush if someone smacked 'em with one, and yet they have the gall to call  _ me  _ a slacker."

"Oh that's rather a given, don't you think?"

"Shaddap, you," the demon quipped, affectionately.

Aziraphale smirked and did shut up, so they could listen. But there was still no reaction - no rumbling, no thunder, not even a wayward breeze. "You don't think this is  _ really  _ a blind spot? Maybe... I might consider the possibility that we're obscured from the watch of Heaven and Hell, but not the Almighty, surely?"

Crowley still had his head on a swivel - that pointy-haired legion demon, in particular, was wont to show up in unexpected places. But they’d been standing there for a good ten minutes, and there hadn’t been a peep. "Hold that thought. Trashing your bosses is par for the course down below. I just wanted to start off slowly, see if I got a sting." He cleared his throat - on to bigger and better things, then. "In the 1300s, I was posing as a plague doctor. I was directly ordered to assist in the spread of disease, and that's certainly what my report stated. Except that I did the exact opposite and spent the whole time healing people. Or drinking." 

Aziraphale blinked owlishly at the demon, but bit his tongue for the moment. After a long couple minutes of silence, he whispered dramatically, "Did you really?!" Oh, he had been fairly sure Crowley had been there; he'd heard his friend complain about the 14th century often enough since it had happened. But he hadn't considered what Crowley was doing there - other than being inconvenienced by a natural disaster, just as he'd been.

"A  _ lot  _ of drinking,[11] " Crowley added. Admitting to blatant disobedience would definitely get him a punishment -  _ if _ he were heard, and he felt a reflexive prickle of unease despite his growing hope. "But, er... nnyeah, that was a thing." He swiveled his foot in the dirt, glancing to the side to avoid eye contact (not that Aziraphale could see his eyes anyway, due to his sunglasses). "Never seen so much death in one place, not even on battlefields. Women, kids... it just bowled 'em right over."

"I know,” Aziraphale sighed sadly. “I was there, too. Direct orders from on high not to interfere. But I could bless the doctors here and there to give them strength, maybe move a few supplies around for food and medical needs." He leaned back against one of the stones unthinkingly and then shivered at the sizzle of power, "Oh, right."

The demon smiled at that, then glanced around again, doing a quick sweep to make sure no one was hiding nearby to listen. "Still nothing on my end."

Aziraphale sighed and relaxed somewhat, just imagining having the heavy mantle of Heaven’s judging gaze lifted for a moment. He held his hand out in a shaft of sunlight angled through the monument and said, "That's been the hardest thing to reconcile, you know. I was made to love, and to protect - and I've been reprimanded so many times for interfering with human affairs. For healing the sick or freeing captives or otherwise saving lives. Oh, I do understand - the life they live here is naught but a brief test compared to the eternity they face afterward. But... oh, it's difficult." He looked at Crowley imploringly, desperate for a little respite, a tiny taste of true freedom.  _ Please let this be real. _

From the shelter of his glasses, Crowley watched him. It was fitting that the angel looked so at ease here, in a ring of love and devotion, caressed by sunlight - he  _ was  _ sunlight. He was hot tea on a chilly day and a warm embrace in a time of suffering. He was home, and his arms were a safehouse, and Crowley had been away for so long that he ached. "It is," he agreed softly. "It's difficult, and unreasonable, and cruel." Still nothing. Zip. "One more test - reach out to Her. I'll reach out to mine. See if they respond - if they can't hear us, they certainly can't see us."

"I can try, but Crowley - I am sorry, truly I am, but it might be fruitless.” The angel wrung his hands anxiously. “She hasn't answered me in... years." For many, many thousands of years, She had been utterly silent - ever since the Flood, in fact. Aziraphale wasn't sure if it was something in Her that had changed or something in himself, but he hadn't heard Her voice since the rain began.

Though he had a good idea of why that was, the serpent kept it to himself. "S'all right, angel. Just try." Aziraphale nodded that he would, and the demon began to open up the line to Hell within himself. Casting his gaze downward, Crowley extended his will and reached out for the powers Below. The objective here wasn't actually to make contact; it was to hit a wall, to pick up the phone and realize the line was dead, nothing in, nothing out. Then he would know for certain that they were truly Alone. And to his delight, that line was indeed dead as a doornail - not even the infernal equivalent of a dial tone. He peeked at Aziraphale over the rim of his shades, watching, eyes wide and shiny with barely contained excitement.

Aziraphale meanwhile, had taken his hat off again and tilted his face upward, eyes closed and expression serene. He took a few breaths, then scrunched his face in confusion. "Ah..." He straightened up and rolled his shoulders, and then gave it another go, lips slightly pursed, before he turned to Crowley. "... Um, er. Maybe I should try later. I can't seem to focus. Probably just need some tea and a bite to eat."

"If it's a focus issue, then we're both buggered. I can't reach mine, either. Totally blocked off." Crowley actually was wiggling now, just a little, and a grin was tugging at his mouth. "Angeeeel," he sang. "I think we might actually be off the grid."

Putting a hand to his forehead, thumb angled out against his temple, Aziraphale exhaled, "Okay, alright, maybe?  _ Maybe  _ you knew this would happen. You were ran- talking about something like this... oh, decades ago. Strange that I've never noticed anything in any of the heathen holy sites I've been to - and I've visited India, you know, and all through Africa. How did you find out about this?"

One eyebrow quirked at the word exchange, but Crowley let it slide because a) he  _ was  _ prone to ranting and b) he had to focus on quickly piecing together an explanation that was just true enough to not be a lie. "I accidentally came across an underground site, in a cave, during a job in Mexico," he finally said. "High-energy weirdness in there, used for rituals and rites. But the clincher was when I tried to summon some light and realized miracles didn't work. That was how I figured out that I was cut off, and so was anyone else." That was very nearly a whole truth - he  _ had  _ discovered that cave during a mission, ass-first.

"Miracles don't work?" the angel mused. "Hm. If I'm blocked from Heaven, I suppose it would mean I'm cut off-" He held out his hat and snapped his other hand over it, as if anticipating a small object to materialize and fall into his cream fedora. And, as Crowley had implied, there was nothing. "Oh! Goodness, I ... I  _ am  _ cut off!"

The demon was practically vibrating now, as if he was going to wiggle right out of his skin. At least he'd learned something useful from his harrowing experiences Before: the safe spaces on consecrated grounds really did exist, even in this new timeline. One just had to know where to look. "You know what this means, right?" His voice was breathy.

Aziraphale turned and glared at Crowley for a long moment, trying to figure out exactly what was going on here, how it could even be possible, and why his demon chum looked so bloody pleased with himself. There was a thought scratching at the inside of his skull, but he couldn’t quite suss it out yet. "I suppose,” he began, “It means that we can say anything we like, about whomever we like. Which is fine if you like gossip, but as nice as it might feel to let off some steam, it won't really fix anything. Am I missing something?"

"It  _ means _ ," Crowley all but purred, leaning against the stone opposite Aziraphale. "That there are more places like this. Think about it, angel. There's thousands of religions all over the world, and each one has their own gods and goddesses with their own special ground: stone circles, shrines, altars, tabernacles, fairy rings, burial grounds, you name it." He lifted his shades, eyes bright like polished coins, as he gestured broadly at the open air. "A whole network of secret places across the world where Heaven and Hell can't see or hear us! Where, as far as I can tell, even the Almighty can’t spy on us. We can disappear, Aziraphale! We can go explore the world, one heathen monument at a time, without having to fret about anyone seeing us!"

The angel may have looked like he was listening intently, and he really did want to, but suddenly he found himself thinking about how handsome Crowley had been when he'd first seen him in the church. With his short-clipped hair, his tailored suit and smart hat, and how the demon really had looked quite dashing - despite dancing around like a clown and burning his silly feet on consecrated ground. But this ground was consecrated as well... just... not to God. How peculiar. 

Though Aziraphale wasn’t actually paying attention to the words, he couldn’t help but hang on every syllable, just for how it changed the shape of Crowley's mouth. Through his staring, Aziraphale tried to reassemble whatever it was Crowley was actually saying, and, for the most part, failed. He nodded and muttered dimly in response: "Yes, network, that sounds terribly useful. I'll... I'll look into it right away."

The demon was still chattering on about how they should start compiling a map of places they found, and how it would be so very useful to have that map in case of emergencies... or if they just wanted some time to themselves. It had been so long since Aziraphale had seen Crowley this animated. He thought he'd never see that weight lift from his friend's shoulders, and yet... look at him, how bright his eyes were, how excited and happy and beautiful he was! And in between one moment and the next, the angel found himself in Crowley's personal space with little idea how he got there. He just... was there. "We're alone,” he said, leaning close, while a small voice screamed shrill warnings that he could not hear over the sound of his own heart.

"So, we should-" The rest of the sentence dropped away when Crowley realized how little space there was between them.  _ Whoa, déjà vu _ . He wasn't upset about it, exactly, but it was uncommon behavior from  _ this _ Aziraphale."... yeah, we are," he replied, with a little smile. "Pretty great, right?" Understatement of the year, but he was justifiably distracted.

Crowley had also not seen the look on Aziraphale's face when the world had turned sideways on him and dumped him out in the ruins of the church, all emotionally jumbled up. Crowley hadn't felt the way Aziaphale’s heart leapt when their fingertips sparked together over the handle of a leather satchel. The demon couldn't see how beautiful his own eyes were, or how worthy he was, or even how badly Aziraphale had treated him. "You're pretty great." The angel said, "You're wonderful, and I can say that now." And Heaven, his chest hurt, knowing they'd only be able to get away with this kindness in stolen moments like this one. Even if they kept running from shelter to shelter forever, would it ever be enough? It  _ hurt _ . He raised a hand toward Crowley's cheek, just hovering it there, warmth against warmth. What now?

And Crowley stilled, eyes fixed to the soft palm of that offered hand. What should he do? This was so familiar, and yet he knew it was very different. He had no frame of reference here. Crowley knew what he wanted to do: he wanted to lace his fingers into that cloud-white hair and kiss that pink mouth so hard that they both fell down together. He wanted hands to grab him; he wanted skin on skin; he wanted... everything. Color was creeping like ivy up his neck.  _ No, no, it's too soon, it's too fast. If I rush it, I ruin it _ . He raised his own hand, bringing Aziraphale's palm to his face and nuzzling into it only for a moment. "And I can say-" So many things, so many unsaid things."-that the sly little face you make when you know you're getting away with something is one of my very favorite things about you, angel."   
  
The moment slowed. They were so close, feeling their breath between them, the heat of their skin - so almost-touching. Aziraphale looked into the eyes of his best friend of thousands of years, who he’d only now begun to see as more than that, and he felt… fear. He made a thin sound as panic sizzled up his back.  _ What am I doing?Am I really entertaining the thought of running away with him? To spend our existence scuttling from one hiding place to another like cockroaches until Heaven or Hell gets wise to us? I know being found out is inevitable, and when we are... How can I be so selfish? Oh, Crowley, how can I subsist on mere drops when I am so parched? When drinking deep could mean your destruction? Pathetic. Doomed. _ The words echoed through Aziraphale. He was in love with someone he could never have and did not deserve. Even if Crowley loved him back the same way... who was he to ask for the kind of sacrifices that would have to be made - just to play make-believe at freedom until they got caught? He must have done something very wrong to have earned this punishment, he must have. 

It took all of Aziraphale’s strength to push that spike of terror back into its box and make himself smile and shake his head, feigning calm. He couldn’t let himself dwell on those fatalistic thoughts, couldn’t subject Crowley to the knowledge of them. He had to keep his friend safe - what kind of guardian - of _ angel _ \- would he be, to put someone he loved in peril? So he swallowed it down and managed to continue the conversation without even a hint of his internal trembling conveyed in his voice. "You realize that sounds utterly barmy, I take it? I'd think you’d completely gone off your poor head - but I can't deny that there's something to it. I can't believe I didn't know about this. The archangels must know." He took another deep breath. "And it would only be a matter of time before they'd catch onto what I was up to if I were to drop off their radar too often." He looked at Crowley with growing understanding. Although the demon seemed calmer, he thought perhaps it was better they not stay in the stone circle - particularly when there were tourists coming up the road. "There's some manmade earthworks just down the meadow - come take a walk with me? We'll go see about them."

Crowley would bet an absurd number of pounds that no one upstairs had a clue about the network, or that consecrated ground aside from their own God's even existed. That would be a carefully guarded secret. He also kept that to himself and simply nodded, flipped his hat and shades back on, and left the circle with his friend. A brochure appeared in his hand, lifted from the nearby tourist center, and he unfolded it. "Oh, right, the barrows! Bunch of the buggers around here."

"Is that what they are? Makes sense." Aziraphale hummed in an interested manner. And after seeing Crowley summon the pamphlet, decided to test his own power in a similar way, relocating something a bit more substantial to his jacket pocket before they continued on. While they walked, he changed the topic to something less incriminating, "I haven't seen you about in quite a while. Not so much as a note on your activities - not a demonic ping to be heard. So, other than obtaining that beautiful automobile of yours, what have you been doing?"

_ Oh thank fuck. _ Crowley exhaled. He was far more willing to discuss this topic. "Uuuuuh... I spent nearly a century sleeping, so that's probably why you didn't hear about me for a hot minute." Hell of a depression nap, granted. "Then I dipped my toes into writing and started spreading some, uh, controversial alternate theories about gods and religion and such."

"You were asleep?” The angel’s tone was incredulous. “Land's sakes, Crowley. I knew you were lazy, but that's incredible..." He laughed lightly and then sighed, "I hope you at least had pleasant dreams. And I'm glad to hear you finally put your talents to use, even if I wouldn’t necessarily approve of the material. But I suppose that's rather in your wheelhouse." Aziraphale meandered closer to the demon, and his knuckles ran lightly across his companion's.

Crowley’s tongue poked out just a little at the teasing, not minding it in the slightest. The playful bickering between them was one of his favorite things about their overall relationship, and it made him feel closer to the angel despite the unusually long span of time they'd spent apart. Oh! A light touch brushed across his hand, and his arm tingled. Because he could, he mimicked the gesture, extending a finger so the back of the nail ran over the tendons. "S'what I do. Oh! And then I messed around in British intel for a bit. That, by the way, was how I knew where to find you."

"I'd wondered about that. Such a shame MI5 was such a mess when I got there. I'd been trying to get deeper in so I could start sorting it out, but unfortunately... well you saw what happened. I don't think that could have gone worse... unless you hadn't-" Aziraphale swallowed and went quiet until they reached the edge of the first barrow. He felt a soft, cooling wash of energy as they passed the edge of the earthworks - the same peace and power that the stone circles held. "Ooh, there it is again!” 

"I hope you didn't think I did that because I thought you couldn't- oh!" The same feeling from Stonehenge tingled across his body and then faded, as if they'd passed through an invisible forcefield. With a snap, Crowley found that he was, indeed, cut off again. He cackled, a spring coming in his usual swaggering step. "Well, how 'bout that, how 'bout that?"

“Indeed!” Aziraphale didn’t bother trying his own miracles; he could feel the barrows’ nullifying effect clear enough. But he stood on the path for a few moments, enjoying the feeling. When he caught up to Crowley, a few paces ahead, he said to him, “If we're truly free to talk without consequence, I'll say it: I'm very grateful, thank you. Thank you for bringing me here, thank you for last night, and thank you for the Bastille. Thank you, Crowley... for watching out for me. You've been a better friend to me than the other angels, and I really think that's a terrible shame."

Oh bugger, they were already doing the being-open thing? Crowley felt blood creeping up his neck. "I... y-you..." His hands slid into his pockets as he walked, trying not to focus on the accidental insult. "Well, that really is a damn shame, if the bloody host of heaven can't enjoy being around you. The wankers." He offered a lopsided smile. "Guess you're stuck with me."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to spring that on you,” Aziraphale said, in a tone that was both apologetic and eager. “It's just been... oh, everything with the church and the - that- what you did. I had thought maybe you were gone for good. But you came back and found me." The angel was starting to hyperventilate, emotions piling up faster than he could express them. "I missed you - I didn't know what you’d been coping with. I thought it was my fault." He coughed and paced around one of the barrow mounds, watching tiny fragile campanula and corncockles bob in the wind. "Was it?"

The demon wanted to put a soothing hand on Aziraphale's shoulder, but the angel pulled too far away and started pacing. He could see that a lot of... something was happening, and emotions were rolling off his friend in waves. "Erm." Aziraphale had missed him? He thought the distance between them, the years of silence, was his fault? There was a long sigh that made him deflate by an inch or two. "No. No, it wasn't your fault, angel. I was just... I had a lot that I was dealing with. Not your fault at all."

"Oh, oh good.” The angel’s relief was palpable. “Thank you. Again. You've been so good to me, really. And… oh dear, I've just said something awful to you. I don't think it's a shame that you've been a good friend to me - I really don't. I ... you're wonderful, you know. You're clever and funny and charming and-" Aziraphale covered his mouth and blushed, before lowering his hand and muttering, "Well, what I mean to say is, I'm glad you're still part of my life. Part of the world."

Fucking hell, that startled and blushing face was adorable, and it took a great deal of restraint for Crowley to stay exactly where he was and not cup those rosy cheeks for a kiss. Suddenly his shirt-collar felt very hot. Since no one was around, the demon slid his glasses off and fidgeted with them. "I'm just glad you didn't spit on me when you saw me for being a wanker." His voice lowered. "I didn't know it worried you so much, that I was gone."

"Oh I was angry for a moment, relieved, furious, happy... how does one describe seeing someone they care about after a long, uncertain absence? No, that's foolish of me. It wasn't long, it only felt that way because we'd had a fight. Crowley, we've never had a fight like that before. I wanted to apologize and reconcile the very next day, and I couldn't find you. So yes, I was worried. And upset, that you were gone." The angel quietly offered Crowley his hand. "You and I... are enemies. And She Herself has said what to do with thy enemy. I do as I was made to do, and I don't know how to change that."

‘Love thy enemy.’ He knew the verse. "I know. I... I'm so sorry, angel." He accepted the outstretched hand, interweaving their fingers. Oh.... oh, gods, it felt so good that tears pricked in his eyes. It felt like crackling fire and soft blankets. It felt like home. "I wasn't thinking clearly, and I just wanted to disappear. Not-!" He saw the alarmed expression. "Not like that. Like, go underground for awhile. Hibernate."

"And you came back, you rescued me - and now this." Aziraphale gestured as if to summon power, to indicate the strangeness of the place they were in. "I don't know what it means, exactly. Maybe humans have a little bit of grace in them? They can invent their own false gods and empower these places with their faith... I should be upset, I should consider it a terrible blasphemy, but I don't. I have to believe that in Her wisdom, She planned for this, and has worked it into the weave of Her creation. But it really does test the limits of my mind, you know." 

Crowley, of course, had all that information on hand. He could explain it all: the oscillations, the One-to-Many and the fact that Yahweh was only taking Her turn creating (and botching it horribly). He could. But he wouldn't, not now. Aziraphale's mind wasn't open to hearing it and it would just be so many empty words. So he stuffed down his desire and simply enjoyed the warmth of their joined hands. 

The trail split, and one fork led into a little copse of trees that had grown in the cleavage between two of the mounds. A broad oak cast a pleasant mottled shade over the short grass and clover, and Aziraphale gave it a longing look and asked, "Care to sit? I'll tell you about the secret initiative I'm part of. Of course ,it's only secret to humans." 

"Oooh, a secret initiative? Do tell," he replied, as they sat in the grass between two of the barrows, a pretty little dell hidden from the road. Well, Aziraphale sat. Crowley sort of sprawled backwards, propped on one elbow, not caring about the dirt or grass stains that might get on his suit.

Aziraphale settled himself crossed-legged on the soft ground, and pulled a recently-miraculously-acquired bottle of whiskey from his pocket, offering it to Crowley. While they shared swigs of the bitter liquor, the angel explained with enthusiasm and gesturing hands about the SOE, the 'Secret Operations Executive', how he'd placed himself in the path of Minister Dalton, and convinced the man that he was just a modest, gentle bookseller, but ever so willing to help - how he had read many books on espionage and code cracking - plus, he could speak several languages (not French, unfortunately), and his proficiencies in Russian and Japanese were seen as a potential asset. "They were a bit too curious about why I had learned Japanese at all, but I was able to put that thought out of their minds, if you know what I mean - and I think you do."

“Naughty angel!” Crowley grinned and continued to listen.

Aziraphale also bragged cheerfully about how it was his idea to nickname the members of the SOE the 'Baker Street Irregulars' after the fictional group in Sir Conan Doyle's books - and how, sadly, only a few of the other members had even heard of it, but they hadn't anything better, so it stuck. "And you'd better believe I went 'round and found all the extra copies I had and brought them in." Aziraphale tutted, "Oh I expect they'll be revoking my membership after this whole fiasco. I will miss them, they were a lot of fun to wag about with over tea."

Relaxing in the grass, cradling his head in his palm and taking lazy swigs of whiskey, Crowley let the angel's excited babble and the softly-blowing breeze wash over him. It was quite interesting, really, that they'd both independently decided to get involved with an intelligence-gathering operation of one sort or another. He smiled at the pride with which Aziraphale spoke of the SOE's nickname, because of course, his bookworm companion would think to use a lesser-known nickname inspired by famous literature. If nothing else, the demon was immensely relieved that Aziraphale hadn't been left alone during his time in 'hibernation', that he'd been able to make friends and keep company and continue to help others. "Well," he said lazily, letting his head flop back, hat dropping off. "Seeing how a bomb dropped on the building and all known witnesses met a most unfortunate end, I really don't see how they can say it was your fault that the operation went tits-up. I mean, it was a bomb, for Hell's sake. A freak accident - a tragedy, even! Why, poor Mr. Fell, you're just lucky to be alive!" His grin was wide, cheeky, and infectious.

"I think perhaps Mr. Fell shouldn't have survived that, after all." Aziraphale considered, "I do believe it's about time the bookshop got passed down to my ‘son’." He'd style his hair and maybe put a little dye in it, a little makeup to make him look younger, and a bit of ‘oh, yes, he does resemble his father, doesn't he? Such a shame what happened to dear old Ebenezer’ or Evan or Ezra or whatever his name was this century. It was the same charade he knew Crowley had to play every fifty or sixty years as well. "About that time, indeed. I could use some new clothes, too."

The serpent blinked and sat up abruptly. "Sorry, didn't catch that - must've had the wind in my ears. Did you just say you're going to get new clothes? You?" Ramping up the dramatics, he leaned in and put his free hand on Aziraphale's forehead as if to check for a fever.

The angel scoffed and batted at Crowley's hand on his face, "Oh get off, you awful thing!" He rolled his eyes, matching his companion's dramatics. "You know I do like a change of clothes when my wardrobe gets too out of date." Or, rather, had gotten so threadbare that only his own angelic will held the fabric together. "This jacket is brand new, thank you."

Crowley laughed loudly, knowing that he'd be swatted away before even lifting his hand, and then rested his chin in his palm as he gave the angel a casual once-over. It was true: his getup today was much more modern - a contemporary overcoat and hat, and his trousers had been purchased that decade - but at the same time, he still had that beloved velvet waistcoat that looked fit to fall apart, its hems worn bald by anxious fingertips.

The serpent was secretly very fond of that waistcoat, and he hadn't had much time to appreciate it until now. "Yeah, I see that. Looks good on you, angel. Very fetching." The other hand, still entwined with Aziraphale's, gave a small squeeze.

"Truth be told, I'm not that fond of the hat. It flattens my hair." Aziraphale tilted it back slightly and smiled, "Thank you. And you look very handsome with your hair short." But Crowley had always been up to the times in his clothing. Even if sometimes the demon's choices were, in Aziraphale’s opinion, misguided. "...You know, if Mr. Fell has ‘passed on’, nobody will be looking for him. I ought to stay out of London for a while, until the 'son' comes to claim his father's business. I was considering 'Avery' for this go-around. What do you think?"

A garbled noise came from Crowley’s throat and color tinted his face, with no hat or glasses to hide it. Smooth. "Yeah, well, it got all long and ratty while I was asleep, so off it went." Then he pondered the name. "Avery. A-ver-y. Yeah, that's a good name. Nice musical quality. So where will young Avery be staying until he hears the news of his father's untimely death?"

"Oh I don't know. I was considering France. Marseille or Nice, somewhere warm. Or I'd skip into Switzerland and hide out in Geneva for a while, just to relax. Take in a spa." Aziraphale had a dreamy look on his face, yes - hot salt springs, a massage, a manicure... decadent.

"Sounds divine." Lounging in luxury like a fat cat on a silk pillow was practically what Aziraphale was created to do, and the mental image made the demon smile.

"It's so nice here. It's a shame we can't just stay right where we are until it all blows over." The angel pouted, then looked at his hand, where Crowley was still holding tightly onto it, fingers interwoven. "How are you doing? Calmer now?"

It really was a shame that they couldn't stay in that little wildflower-festooned meadow, out of Heaven and Hell's sights, where they could do such radical things as 'speak freely' and 'hold hands'. "Yeah," he murmured, laying on his back, head pillowed on his arm. "A lot calmer. Sorry for flipping out on you. Dunno what came over me."

The angel frowned, "You don't? That was more than just cold feet, Crowley. You saw something... and it was terrifying you. You can tell me, you know - anything. Are you having nightmares again?" Had Crowley been trapped in a nightmare for the decades he'd been dormant? Aziraphale hated to consider it, and he studied the demon's face in concern.

"Er." His stomach tightened. Sometimes Crowley wished the angel was less attuned to him. Another long sigh came from him, a weary sound. "There's no 'again', angel. They never stopped. Oh, they'd trickle off for a minute, and then come right back in." Crowley didn't have the heart, or the right, to tell Aziraphale that the real nightmare was figuring out how to live in a loveless timeline, and that sleep was a welcome escape. He fidgeted with his glasses. "... one of them involves a magic stone circle. We go into it, and you... die. Not discorporate - die. Fall down dead, and there's nothing I can do."

Aziraphale was quiet for a long moment, several heartbeats, before he said, "I suppose that is my fault. For storming off. Making you feel abandoned like that. I am very sorry." He lifted his hand and Crowley's, intertwined, "I am your friend. And I should act like it more often." Even though he'd said otherwise in the past. Even though he would say otherwise again in days to come. The angel regretted that he let his emotions get to his mouth before his brain could - but although he was apologetic, he had not yet figured out that he could change. He believed that God had made him as he was meant to be; therefore, his impulses and actions were as She desired them.

If Aziraphale wanted to assume the entire thing was symbolic, just Crowley's mind communicating its subconscious feelings, then Crowley wouldn't argue with him. That, after all, was the most logical conclusion. The lifted hands made his face and stomach muscles relax. "I know, angel. And I'm yours." 

"But." The angel began again, "If you've been having nightmares since we went to the Americas... That's not alright, Crowley. There's something very wrong, especially if you're having flashbacks and visions while awake. Why didn't you tell me? Maybe I could help." He frowned, "It could be some sort of curse or premonition." Though the latter notion chilled him to his celestial marrow. He steeled his will, set his jaw, and said, "I'm afraid for you, Crowley."

Crowley blinked. His mind was already racing, running down a list of things he'd done or said recently that would upset the angel - he winced internally on finding it was quite long. Wait. Aziraphale wasn't simply angry at him this time.  _ He’s worried about me? _ "Wha-...Why? I’m fine, tip top - it was just a few bad dreams. Nothing bad happened."

_ Why?!  _ The frown that wrinkled the edges of the angel's mouth was, frankly, just a bit cross. "Don't be dense, Crowley. You don't exist in a vacuum. When you mope about for a century, ask me for something you could end yourself with, and then vanish, that happened... well that happened to  _ me _ ! Didn't you think about that at all?"

Crowley hadn't, actually. The idea that someone, anyone, might give a damn if he was around or not had not once occurred to him, and his deer-in-headlights expression testified to this. "I..." Suddenly his fingernails held some sort of fathomless secret, judging by how he fixed his eyes to them. "... no, not at all. I didn't think it... mattered."

"It mattered, Crowley. I've been trying to pull myself together while my oldest friend -" Only friend "-was turning into a ghost. I was so sure you were going to do it. And... it would be my fault." He forced himself to breathe evenly. "And... after I'd given up on ever seeing you again, there you were. Rescuing me. I don't know how to go forward now."

The demon's mind stuttered. Aziraphale really thought he was going to commit suicide, and that... mattered? Someone was worried about him? Someone was so worried about him, in fact, that they were becoming angry with him? ".... I didn't... I didn't know. And you didn't..." No, no. He shook his head, as if to erase the rest of that thought. "It was never my intention to upset you or hurt you, angel, but I... can see that I did anyways. So... I'm sorry."

"I know." Aziraphale said softly. "That means something." They were quiet for a minute, letting the tension between them ease. “I just wish you’d trust me with the truth, Crowley. You don’t need to go through this alone. I have a lot of books, and a lot of knowledge locked up in this little human brain. Don’t underestimate me.”

"No no, I don’t. It’s just because it's utterly barmy, as you said,” Crowley admitted tiredly. "And because I didn't want to trouble you with it. I thought they'd... I dunno, go away with time. That I could distract myself with work and recover that way." His expression soured. "Apparently not."

"Apparently not." Echoed Aziraphale. He took his hand back from Crowley and nested both in his lap. And after a while he asked, "Will you trust me now? What haven’t you told me?"

Crowley didn’t answer right away. He instantly felt a pang of loss when the distance between them was reestablished, even if it was only a few inches. But he recognized the posture: Aziraphale was upset with him. "A great deal," he admitted, finally, in a low voice. "If you really want to know, then I'll tell you. But I'll warn you now: it's long. And you won't like it."

After opening and closing his mouth a few times, aborting each potential response before the first syllable, Aziraphale eventually exhaled and said, "Oh. Is this about something Hell is up to? You know that if you tell me, I  _ will  _ have to inform my superiors if it's anything they need to hear. I can't keep important information from them." He swallowed, "So... do be careful, my dear. Don't incriminate yourself."

"Nothin' like that. Just the contents of my, um, visions." Thinking back, Camazotz never said that he couldn't tell anyone else about their life Before, but why would he? It was bonkers, and no one would believe him, including the uneasy angel across from him. Crowley had been seriously considering turning the entire experience into an illustrated novella, just to get it off his chest. "But my warning stands."

"Yes, yes. You've warned me. I'm not some fluttering canary, Crowley. I'm not going to fall over dead if I don't like something you tell me." Aziraphale slapped his hands on his thighs resolutely, and then softened his tone. “Ah, saints preserve us. What have you gotten yourself mixed up in?"

Well. The angel was an adult-shaped being, and he'd given the go-ahead. Crowley silently heaved a defeated sigh and sat up, thinking of how to begin. "Right - you remember in Guatemala, when that missionary- Edmund, was it? Yes, Edmund- when Edmund woke up screaming in his tent and canceled everything, right?"

"Yes. I did have a hypothesis that something had happened that had affected you as well." Settling back again against the oak, Aziraphale listened.

"That's where the vision starts: Guatemala, rainforest, tents, same setup. Difference is, when I wake up, our dear missionary has gone mysteriously missing, along with the guide." And thus the tale unfolded, as Crowley wove the entire bizarre source of his nightmares into a semi-cohesive narrative: hideous bat monsters and undead earth golems, curses and underworlds, rescues and recoveries. Interspersed in this tale were brief, but intense, flashes of Love: how they'd found the existence of 'safe spaces' and become closer, and then later been free to confess their feelings while Aziraphale was recuperating. But Crowley also left out a lot of details - like the exact intimate things that they’d said and done, because the demon’s browbeaten heart couldn't take that just then. And he left out much of Aziraphale's curse to make it sound like the angel was simply doomed to become a thrall to said hideous bat monster, omitting all the gruesome activities that had been undertaken in the service of grand-scheme cosmic affairs.

For a while, Aziraphale didn't reply; he wasn't sure how. He nearly started a few times, only to close his mouth and exhale. Eventually he decided on a route, and said, "I don't really understand; but you went through all that, and you remember every bit of it. So I think you're perfectly justified in struggling with the trauma. I  _ do _ wish I’d been a better friend to you-" Aziraphale waved his guilt away - he needed to help Crowley, not comfort himself, "Your nightmares sound just horrible.” He amended, “But you can't believe any of it’s real. Dreams are like that, they’ll show you something awful, but it's all symbolic, your fears coming bubbling up - they don't mean..." The angel trailed off and frowned. Crowley had said he loved him. Crowley had said they'd shared a bed. To hold on to even the hope of that would just be to torture himself. They were star-crossed in the most profound of ways - the very first, in fact. And he couldn't help the disappointment showing, coming through in his voice, "It... doesn't  _ have _ to mean anything at all.” A verbal safety net, a back exit. 

Just as Aziraphale's feelings couldn't be hidden, neither could the demon's anguish. Crowley attempted to control it, to mask it, but his glasses were off, so his strained expression was in full view. "Right, don't have to mean anything," he faintly echoed, breaking eye contact. "Nothin' at all." 

“But you haven't said why. Crowley, do you know  _ why _ you are having these dreams?"

This was where Crowley had to spitball it. "I already told you why on the voyage back: the jungle natives know some powerful spellcraft and didn't want us there. They clearly spiked the herbal drink, which Edmund and I both shared the afternoon before."

"Yes, you did, sure. That was established early on. But why are you  _ still  _ having them? What did it do to you? What is it doing now? And how do we put a stop to it?” The angel was flailing, shaking his hands as if they were wet, “Crowley, those dreams are torturing you... and..." Aziraphale made a frustrated noise. “It’s unfair! You might not think you’re any good, but you don’t deserve _ this. _ ”

“Look, angel,” Crowley said calmly, trying to diffuse his friend’s anxiety, “Near as I can tell, the spell itself has already worn off, but my brain thinks it all really happened.” He was talking as if it was happening to someone else, but his tone grew bitter as he went on. “Maybe I'm still having flashbacks because - whether it actually happened or not - the last time I saw my best friend step into a stone circle, he dropped dead, and I didn't want that to happen again.   
  
“Oh, my dear.” The angel’s jaw quivered. He was Crowley’s best friend, too? “I am terribly sorry. But you can’t keep going on this way, there must be some way to put a stop to it. Because that vision you just had - that… that wasn’t a nightmare, you were awake. You were  _ there _ .” And Aziraphale was unable to accept that the problem had such a simple explanation. There was still more, buried under the layers of truths and omissions he could sense but not make sense of. 

“There’s more to it, I can feel it. Just let me try…”

“Leave it alone, angel!” Pain easily evolved into anger, and as such, the demon had allowed his voice to become a growl. “You don’t know what you’re asking me. I’m  _ fine _ , I can deal with this. I can’t deal with  _ you _ pushing and prodding me about it!”

"That... that's, well I'm sorry!" Aziraphale's voice started to arc up in pitch, counter to the lowering of Crowley's. "I know you’ve been through something horrific, but I cannot accept that something as mundane as a bad experience has left you tortured by nightmares and visions for over two hundred years!" The angel began to reach for his companion's hand again, then jerked back, unable to stop flicking his eyes over the demon's face and body, unable to banish the thoughts of holding, kissing, touching... he wanted to bury his face in Crowley's familiar scent and snag his fingers in the hair that had been so recently shorn away. He wanted to grab his friend by the lapels and claim his mouth to stop the flow of madness spilling from it…

Aziraphale was too close to cracking; tears threatened at the edges of his eyes, and his nose and cheeks were already red with shame and frustration. The maelstrom of emotion and revelation was more than the angel's fragile mind could contain, and he latched onto the only way out he could see. "If you're not going to let me help you... if I can't do anything to make it better... I - I don't know what good it'll do for me to stay here." He swallowed sharply, face creasing, "You're obviously cursed, and it's not letting you be honest with me. I simply cannot let this go unaddressed, so even if you won’t do anything about it, I will! And when I find some way to actually treat you, I'll let you know. I'll forward you my address when I get to... where I'm going."

This new timeline appeared to be an exercise in how many times Crowley's heart could be shattered, and how small the pieces could get. He uttered a rumbling growl so deep that it made the air around him tremble, and his pupils constricted so far that they were nearly gone. "And this, this right here, is why I didn't tell you anything. Because you wouldn't hear anything I fucking said." He was the first to stand, swiping grass from his backside. "It's bloody trauma, angel, you can't just wish it away. And even if you could..." Yellow coins glared down at the angel, his angel, he wanted to grab that soft face and kiss the worry right off it- "... even if you could, maybe I don't want to lose the good parts. Did you think of that? Maybe I wouldn't have known about the safe spots. Maybe I'd forget that I told you I loved you, and that I knew exactly what I damn meant." His hat was set firmly on his head. "But if it's that unbearable, if you need to go, then don't let me stop you." A few twenty-pound notes were pulled out of his pocket and dropped at the angel's feet. "That should get you back to Soho." Damn it all, he was crying. He shoved his glasses on to hide it and angrily stalked off.

"I have my own bloody money, I don't need your - Oh!" The angel fumed, "Alright! Fine! You go ahead, then. Sleep for another century! Live in denial!" He couldn't even tell if Crowley was able to hear him as the demon stormed away. "I'll still be here to help you... I'll find a way." He dropped his voice and watched the dark shape descend down the barrow. "I love you, too, you stupid, insufferable thing."

***

7During his check-ins at Crowley's home, Aziraphale had also put in place some of his own warding, which had alerted him.[return to text]

8At which they did not buy any petrol because what is that even? They didn't know.[return to text]

9Heaven was technically privy to everything any angel said or thought, but with roughly twenty million angels to keep tabs on, a thought or conversation didn’t actually register unless it was about something forbidden. Aziraphale would have to trigger the system to turn an ear his way.[return to text]

10A healthy opinion of 'Oxford Bags' and 'Zoot Suits', however, was fair play.[return to text]

11People were dying left and right, it wasn't as if they'd miss the contents of their larders - nor their pockets. It was only fair recompense for the dismal work he'd been doing.[return to text]


	15. Interlude: Dashing Sea-faring Husbands.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An illustration that we felt deserved its own chapter.

[Click to see bigger](https://i.imgur.com/YtMJmeO.jpg) [](https://i.imgur.com/YtMJmeO.jpg)


	16. (We Are But) Dust and Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which apologies are made. More talking, more retracing of history, and new ground gained.
> 
> Thank you to Joy_Shines for being our beta and editor.

Crowley’s drive back to London was a dark and tumultuous blur, broken up only by the couple of moments where he’d been too unstable to drive and had pulled over to catch his breath (or maybe the Bentley had done it for him - such a good girl, really). His entire chest cavity ached, and he released the pain in the form of sobbing and screaming obscenities at the car ceiling. Everything had changed, and he didn't know when. He and Aziraphale had made such good progress, hidden in their secret place, that he’d felt brave enough to tell the angel the truth - and once again, he’d been dismissed, leaving him feeling adrift and betrayed. His heart was in tatters; his stomach in knots. And his bloody feet hurt.

When he finally made it back to his flat, he slept for a good couple months (to let his burned feet heal), and got to work as soon as he awoke. In a bid to maintain his sanity, Crowley pushed all thoughts of Aziraphale to the back of his mind and doubled his efforts to spread disbelief across the globe. Charles Darwin's famous _Origin of Species_ project had been published earlier that century, and it only took a small miracle to popularize it among the public (along with the works of T.H. Huxley, Albert Einstein, and George Eliot). In true demonic fashion, he also helped himself to a cut of the royalties from the various authors he’d brought to fame (his ‘manager fee’, he called it) and tucked most of it away into assorted banks and trust funds - needless to say, he lived very comfortably.

But he would not speak to Aziraphale again for another twenty-six years. 

***

Meanwhile, Aziraphale was making a cozy little nest for himself in Soho, filling his shop's inventory and even selling some of the volumes he hadn't gotten attached to. He, too, managed to secure a tidy 'nest egg' of his own by turning his hand to cards, namely blackjack, bridge, and poker. It was noted by many that he was almost suspiciously good at gambling - this was entirely because he cheated (not that he was ever caught). Not one to sin outright, the angel rationalized his trickery as 'teaching feckless young people a lesson in humility and moderation' - the fact that it had been profiting him significantly was a mere aside.

To balance out his vices, Aziraphale played a different hand: helping charitable organizations obtain properties on which to construct proper homeless shelters and community parks; repairing housing for low-income families; and filling food banks for those in dire need. Even after the war ended, he continued to encourage larger and better social programs, and eventually, in the 70s and 80s, his influence would result in the first specialized support resources for the mentally ill, women and children escaping abusive relationships, queer youth, and other groups within the at-risk population. Of these feats, he was terribly proud, and everyone spoke kindly of “that dear Mr. Fell”.

In the midst of all this, however, the angel couldn’t stop his thoughts from drifting to Crowley, as the distinct lack of contact was hard to ignore. He felt it was an appropriate penance to wallow in guilt over his callousness, while also vacillating between convincing himself that he'd made the best possible moral decision for both of them and admitting that he had been a coward, a crumb, and a lousy friend. Really, it was no wonder if Crowley loathed him.

Then one day, the young man Aziraphale paid to keep him abreast of such dealings arrived at his door with some very interesting and troubling news, and he knew - whether Crowley wanted to see him or not - that his hand in the matter was being forced.

***

It was in the mid-1960s, the heyday of free love and military anxiety, that Crowley found himself sitting not quite so comfortably as he’d once been. Hell's higher-ups were still peachy-keen on his religious sabotage, of course, but the serpent was becoming increasingly aware that the lower-ranking demons were stirring with envy and suspicion. The more they whispered about how Crowley was ‘up to something’ and ‘thinks he’s too good for Hell’ and ‘needs to be taken down a peg’, the more he became convinced that this line of work was too dangerous without protection. He needed backup, a failsafe - he needed that holy water. In the end, it was that logic that drove Crowley to organize a hit on a church. The humans he hired were artless rubes, and he'd probably burn his feet again, but he'd get what he needed.

And after he'd made the final arrangements with his accomplices, the last thing Crowley expected was to get into the Bentley and find a certain dove waiting in the passenger seat. At the sight of Aziraphale, the demon felt his ribcage creaking with the pressure of happiness, hurt, sorrow, and searing anger that bubbled up like a fountain; after nearly thirty years of complete silence, what gave the angel the right to show his face like this, without any warning, and presume to tell him what to do? Why couldn’t Aziraphale understand that Crowley was doing this, that he needed that holy water, because he was in danger? He had to protect himself! 

Then the angel presented him with a tartan thermos, and everything in the demon’s head ground to a screeching halt. He accepted it, because his body left him no other option, and cradled it in his palms. To receive such a gift, a gesture, a token of protection, after decades of silence... dear gods, the whiplash was going to break his neck. For a moment, he couldn't think of anything to say, and when he finally could, Aziraphale had refused his thanks and any offer of reciprocation. Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, the angel was gone, leaving Crowley with a bottle of holy water and a crumb of reckless hope. 

***

It had been a gamble to visit Crowley so suddenly, as evidenced by the roiling stormcloud of emotion that filled the car when those golden eyes landed on him. In truth, Aziraphale wouldn’t have begrudged the demon at all if he’d lost his temper - indeed, a tongue-lashing or even a fist to the face would have been fully justified (and might’ve even eased the angel’s wretched guilt), but it didn’t come. 

Despite everything, Crowley’s anger had dissipated almost immediately, and he’d simply sounded sad, tired, and hopeful for connection - ever gentle, ever reaching for him. That, in its own way, was worse than any act of anger; unable to deal with forgiveness, much less affection, Aziraphale recoiled and said something stupid. Again. Even as it left his mouth, he was aware that it was stupid, and he tried to backpedal and leave the conversation open-ended before he let himself out of the car and hurried off into the wet-slick neon night. He felt sick, tears burning in his eyes as he fled. And when he was safely sheltered within his bookshop, the angel slumped into one of his antique Georgian armchairs and wept. _A fool - a fool, a coward and a clod, and still you were so gentle with me. How can you stand the sight of me, after everything I said? Oh God, please, please, let me have hope_. 

***

Immediately after that impromptu meeting, Crowley had driven to his flat, where he stashed the thermos in the safe he kept hidden behind his framed Mona Lisa sketch - one of the few pieces of art he displayed in his austere home. Over and over, the angel’s voice in the back of his mind forced its way to the forefront once more, leaving the demon feeling flayed and off-balance. Echoes of their brief conversation kept repeating in his head, eventually sending him into an emotional spiral. Chest heaving, heart racing, he hyperventilated until he went light-headed and collapsed among the plants in his solarium. When he could get up again, it took a great deal of willpower to not retrieve the thermos and drink its contents right then and there, just to end the chaos in his mind. Instead, he called off the robbery, telling the human criminals to keep what he’d paid them, then drank three bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label and slept for a week.

In the two decades that followed, there continued to be zero communication or visitation between them, though not for lack of trying on his part - phone calls and letters went unanswered, knocks upon the shop door ignored. Crowley eventually convinced himself that the thermos incident was a fluke and once again protected himself by shoving all of his feelings deep down. There was more work to be done - in this case, it was 1989, and he’d been ordered to incite some "aggressive behavior" among Eastern Germans.

***

By some strange happenstance, Aziraphale found himself arriving in the same region at the same time, and for very nearly the same reason. His mission was to bolster the resolve of protestors to buck the regime that had held them apart for nearly 30 years - which, the angel had to remember, was quite a long time for humans. He also made it a priority to make sure that as few people were harmed in the demonstrations and backlash as possible. In fact, with some well-placed suggestions, there was surprisingly little counter-aggression - the government was unraveling, and the guards at the wall were losing their nerve in the face of a gathering storm. What he did not expect was to run into a little storm of his own.

The tension and dissatisfaction in Eastern Germany was tangible, a thick current weaving between the nooks and crannies of the populace. All it took was a few whispers, a few suggestions, in the right ears, and within a week, there was a growing swarm of angry people outside the Berlin Wall that numbered in the tens of thousands. They shouted; they intimidated; they waved their signs; and they bashed their fists and feet against the stones, and Crowley found himself overwhelmed with their unified conviction. They deserved to be free. They deserved to choose. His energy rippled over the crowds, encouraging them, and he felt great satisfaction in shouting along with them in celebration when the checkpoint gates were finally torn down. He knew none of them, and none of them knew him, yet he danced with them and sang long into the night.

One of the more volatile youths was trying to assemble a bottle bomb, about to ignite the relatively peaceful gathering to bloodshed, but Aziraphale swiftly put a stop to it, redirecting the human's attention to something more constructive - like taking a pickaxe to cement. He took the bottle and the rag to dispose of safely, thankful that the child hadn't gotten their hands on any petrol. Thus it happened that when he and Crowley unexpectedly crossed paths, the angel was holding a white flag.

Crowley had sensed Aziraphale's presence, of course, but was doing his utmost to ignore it. There was too much commotion, too much to involve himself in, to fret over the angel or what he was doing. In fact, he'd entirely forgotten Aziraphale was nearby at all... that is, until they nearly collided. Crowley was in casual dress attire, his usual black-on-black: designer shades, snake earrings, turtleneck sweater, silver belt, jeans, short leather boots, scarf, leather jacket. His hair had grown, swept back over his temples in a common men's style. Most of him was coated in dust, sweat glistened on his brow, and a broken sledgehammer was in his fist - clearly, he'd had his own go at the wall.

Not knowing what to say or do, Aziraphale took a step back, eyes wide with surprise - and a little bit of fear. He glanced down at the hammer, and then back into the demon's face, and he held up the scrap of cotton with a hapless half-smile, the muscles in his face twitching to hold it. He couldn't imagine Crowley attacking him. To be honest, he couldn't imagine Crowley being violent at all, but the other being held the ability to break him just as easily with a word as with a weapon. He offered the square of fabric in apology, in willingness to take responsibility, and in the desperate hope that this gesture would be understood.

The noise around Crowley became a dull drone fading into the background. Aziraphale was here, offering him a white flag of truce, a second token. That cherubic face appeared uncertain, hopeful, the sky-blue eyes wide enough to make his pulse flutter. Maybe.... Maybe it hadn't been a fluke after all? He swallowed, dropped the hammer, and used that same hand to grip the cloth (not the angel himself, though it took a great deal of restraint). And then he held it to his chest and, unable to trust his voice, gave a single nod.

Hesitance bloomed into gratitude, and although there was so much noise and activity around them, Aziraphale was sure his words would be heard. He only had a few, a question too important to be lost in the crowd. "Tonight, after this is over. The Pergamon?"

The reply was instant: "I'll be there." Not a clue where the place was, but the demon would find it, without a doubt. He folded the cloth into quarters and tucked it into his inner jacket pocket, and then smiled crookedly as he walked past the angel. Within seconds, he'd been swallowed by the crowd.

Later that night, after the gates were thrown open and the riots finally tapered off, a gibbous moon hung high in the clear sky, and a demon reached the steps of the Pergamon Museum. It had taken two stops for directions and three wrong turns before Crowley found the museum, but he found it all the same, and that's what mattered. He felt a trickle of fear, a whisper of doubt, that Aziraphale wouldn't be there, that this was a trick... but the angel was there, and relief washed over him.

Aziraphale was waiting at the museum's entrance, leaning back against one of the pillars. He was wearing a long coat, hat, and scarf (in his usual colours) against the cold, and was carrying a wicker picnic basket. His face lit up when he saw Crowley coming. He knew he wouldn't be stood up; he was certain, and yet it was like a wash of warmth to have that last, stubborn bit of doubt turn to ash. Without a word, the angel unlocked the museum door (bypassing any security measures, of course) and let them in.

The demon welcomed the warmth as he brushed snowflakes out of his hair. "Ahh, that's better. Cold as a well-digger's boots out there, it is."

"Lucky me, I've never had to dig a well,” the angel chuckled. "I'd like to show you something." He led Crowley through the entrance to the grand room that housed the partial restoration of the Pergamon altar. During the day, the wide glass ceiling let the room fill with sunlight, giving the space an ethereal, almost heaven-like feel, a reminder to the visitors of what the monument was originally meant for. But at night - oh, at night! - The moon shone down in hues of silver and blue, creating an eerie, otherworldly space, almost as if the altar were underwater - its deep shadows and detailed reliefs strangely alive in the half-light.

Aziraphale said, "I know... this probably wasn't what you had in mind. But I thought - Oh, well, it was silly. I'm very glad you came."

"I didn't have a thing in mind, angel, I was just glad to see you," Crowley said softly, almost like he was talking to himself, as he lifted his glasses to take in the sight properly. Then he stepped forward, under the glass and into that shifting light, stretching his arms out and watching how the shadows shifted over them as he turned in a circle. Then he stopped and grinned at the angel. "A museum with an _altar_ , eh?"

"I thought it would be best if we spoke _alone_ ,” Aziraphale confessed. "And we will be. I've tested it. There's a place we can sit down at the top." And he made a genteel ‘after-you’ gesture. The energy that curled around the old altar was still potent, but different from the sacred places in the New World, or even the stone circle in Salisbury. The gods to whom this monument had been dedicated were no longer present. They had been destroyed or cast out long ago, and only the wonder of human visitors kept its consecration from fading completely. "Of course, I hadn't intended to find this here, I was just sightseeing before the protests demanded all my attention - but when I stumbled upon it, well, I had to know."

"I completely understand." Crowley didn't have the slightest problem with being Alone. If anything, he was pleased that such a spot existed here, and that Aziraphale had been inclined to investigate it. The gods here, he supposed, were probably dead or in hiding. _Thanks to Yahweh, the poor sods_. He trotted up the staircase and, after removing his jacket and scarf, settled on the top step. A brief test of his own confirmed their seclusion, and he hummed happily, leaning back on his hands. "Lucky for us this was in the area. I needed some quiet after all that racket."

"Quite so. I brought something. I thought it would be helpful." As he took a seat on the same broad step, the angel placed the basket between himself and Crowley: a peace offering and a safety measure. Twenty-six years ago, he'd suggested a picnic. It had come out as a 'maybe', but he'd thought of it as a promise. And maybe this wasn't a green meadow or a forest glade, but it was special in its own way - a unique way that was only for _them_.

There was wine in the basket, as one would expect: bright Gewurztraminer, syrupy Merlot, tart Pinot Noir. There was also an accompaniment of soft tea sandwiches, cheeses, grapes, and apples, as well as a box of Belgian chocolate pralines nestled at the bottom.

Crowley had been terribly curious as to what was in that basket, and his eyes narrowed in a smile when understanding dawned: a picnic! Distantly, he recalled the angel saying something about that, but he'd written it off as a suggestion, a last-minute blurb that slipped out in panic. "Very thoughtful of you, angel." He popped a grape in his mouth, and then popped the corks on the wine bottles, automatically giving each one a sniff as they were opened. "Mmm, very nice," he murmured appreciatively. "You thought of everything."

Aziraphale put a couple of plastic cups on the step - he'd tried his best with his selections, as he wanted to bring things Crowley would like, to put the other's enjoyment first for once. "Close enough, right?" There was something worn in his voice, threadbare. "I'm here because I've something to say... and I can say it before or after you've had a drink, but I'm going to say it."

The demon took the cups and filled both of them with the Pinot Noir, glancing up uneasily upon hearing the angel’s statement. "Well, if you're gonna start with that, then you should probably say it now, or I won't be able to taste a thing." The minor muscles in Crowley's face had grown tense, and there was no buffer between Aziraphale and his worried eyes.

"Ah, mmn. I think _I_ need a drink for this." Aziraphale toasted with his cup before tipping it up and downing half of it. He took a slow breath once he'd done that, putting the plastic cup down. "Right. Yes. Look, I've never told you this and I should have, and I apologize deeply." A pause, a breath. "You've done more good for me than anyone in Heaven or on Earth, and I am profoundly grateful to you. And… And I did some stupid, _stupid_ things because I was afraid of losing you. Not just, oh, I - that is to say, I could have muddled through it if you never spoke to me again. It would’ve been miserable but I could have done it, even if you hated me, just as long as you were alive. I thought of the possibility that you'd be destroyed because of me, and I still do - it still scares me. But I owe you this: an explanation and the freedom to make your own choices."

Aziraphale was... apologizing? Not only apologizing, but explaining? Somewhere, a herd of pigs was taking off in flight. (The demon didn't say that, of course but he knew his face was broadcasting it loud and clear.) The tensed muscles relaxed, and pleasure was radiating from his body. They were Alone, and Crowley felt a little more comfortable with being praised. If they were at the stage for it, he'd have kissed the angel squarely on the mouth. Unable to do so, he sipped his Merlot instead. "So you... don't hate me, then, or... want me to stay away?"

"Of course not.” That was said with certainty. “I never did, and I'm so sorry for ever having made you think that. And-” Here, the angel fidgeted with his cup. “-And frankly, I don't know why you're not angry with me. I know I am. I'm ... ashamed of myself. You've been loyal and patient, and I've just been selfish." Aziraphale could only wish Crowley _was_ angry with him, that he was spiteful or even just hurt; it would have made it so much easier, so much less painful. But Crowley didn't even understand his own worth, did he? Nobody should simply accept abuse like that, and Aziraphale felt like a monster.

"I _was_ angry with you, for a little while," the demon admitted, swirling the wine before taking another sip. "I mean, I finally told you the truth and it felt like we'd… I dunno, had a breakthrough? And then you suddenly said all those things and it really... it did hurt, but I couldn't blame you for it. I know our situation is precarious, and then I went and told you that bug-eyed-crazy story. So I just thought, 'Ah, it was too much after all'." He toyed with the cup's rim. 

"I think we were both in over our heads.” Aziraphale sighed. “And it isn't just the, er, getting where we were going - it was how easy it would be to run off the road, as it were. Then you started talking about freedom and forming this mad plan about making a secret map for us, and I was ready to run off with you, there and then. And I thought about how, if we did take to the shadows, we'd be hunted for the rest of time. No matter where we hid or how far we ran, they'd catch up eventually. I'd never see Earth again and you-" He paused, moistening his lips. “... and you.”

The demon sighed and poured more wine. "Then I owe you another apology," he said, with regret plain in his voice. "I didn't have a _plan_ for it, angel. I didn't intend for us to... to run away, live on the lam like a pair of outlaws. I just... I wanted to give this to you." The 'this' was accompanied by a circular finger movement in the air. "I wanted you to have the freedom to be Alone. I wanted to give you a safe place, a whole load of safe places, where you could go when you needed a minute to breathe. If I'm there with you, hell, that's just a bonus. And I didn't explain that as well as I should've, perhaps, and I'm sorry for that."

The angel was quiet for a long time. He drank and considered, and after some minutes, he said, "It was me, then. You started talking about those places, and _I_ wanted to run away." The frown on his face indicated that this revelation troubled him. "I'm supposed to be happy, being what I am, doing what I was made to do, but I'm not. At least, because I met you, I have a soul."

At the last sentence, Crowley blushed, _really_ blushed, and nearly dropped his wine. "You have got to stop blindsiding me with compliments, angel, bloody hell," he muttered. Then he looked at the angel knowingly, though without judgment. "Of course you want to run away! Your lot is a bunch of snobby wankers who talk down to you and make you feel like nothing you do is good enough."

Aziraphale snorted, "Oh hush, you. I've been bottling up compliments since Rome, and you know it. I have a lot of time to make up for, and you're going to have to accept it." A pause and a slow-spreading grin followed. "I think about that a lot, by the way. Everything seemed better then: Heaven felt more like home than an office building, and I was so sure I knew everything. I thought I had everything I could ever want. And then, there you were, waltzing in and out of my vision like you had no idea. I've wanted to tell you how beautiful you are, and I will. I have. "

"What." _Oh, no._ The demon’s heart skipped a beat at that smile, because he knew what it meant. Even so, he shot Aziraphale a half-hearted scowl, because it was better than hiding his face like a blushing maiden. "Shaddap, you. You haven't had nearly enough to drink to be calling _me_ beautiful." Then he tipped his head back and drained his cup.

"I don't need to." The angel shrugged. "You are, and I don't care what kind of lousy things you tell yourself, dear. I've seen you." And he wasn't simply talking about the demon's gangly human body, although that was nice, alluring in its own way - he'd _seen_ Crowley, known him for so long that he would recognize his friend in any form: as a serpent, as a flame, as a woman - and, he was certain, even in celestial form. He still wondered how many wings that form would have. "I'm not here just to flatter you, Crowley. I'm here because I want to make amends, I want to fix this broken thing between us. And I know I'm the one who broke it, so tell me, just one thing, please, that I can do to help."

"Beh." Crowley didn't have a single good thing to say about himself - both Hell and Heaven had seen to that. Even if he didn't believe it, though, compliments from the angel were nice to hear and made him smile (especially when they were Alone and safe from judgment). Then he was asked a serious question, and ate a few grapes as he pondered it. "I suppose," he said quietly, after several long minutes had passed, "The best way would be... reconnection?" His face revealed a glimpse of hurt, and hope, and a little smile. "This here, this picnic, was a good start, but I'd want this to carry over. If I see something funny, I can call and tell you about it. If some fancy new café opens up, you can ask me to lunch. If I swing by your shop afterhours for drinks, it's the most normal thing in the world. I just want-" _You._ "-us to have a place in each other's lives again, angel."

"That sounds lovely," Aziraphale said, and he meant it. He was being offered a chance to be a better friend - just a friend, no more than that. Yes, he could do that. It wasn't too fast or too difficult; it didn't drag him into fantasies about far-flung futures and ill-conceived escape plans, or the beauty of Crowley’s eyes and the madness he could find within them. He raised his clear plastic cup of wine, smiling. "A toast, then? To, um, mending something that ought never have been torn."

The serpent could sense the angel's relief and understood then that a path to romance might not exist in this timeline.... or if it did, that it would be a long and convoluted route. This Aziraphale was so hesitant, so afraid, so... headfirst up his own arse, if the demon was being completely honest. And Crowley loved him all the same. But if friendship was offered and nothing more, then he would gladly accept it, for their platonic bond carried just as much weight. He smiled, brightly and raised his own cup, tapping them lightly together. "To mending bridges. Cheers." He emptied the cup, then rubbed his hands together and eagerly pulled the box of pralines from the basket.

Aziraphale smiled self-indulgently - he was hoping the chocolates would be well-received. And he waited patiently, perfectly willing to let Crowley eat the entire box if it meant a peace offering accepted. He drank his wine and picked at the sandwiches - cress and egg salad, lox and cucumber with cream cheese, the standard selection. "Thank you, Crowley. Where will you be going after this?"

The box was peeled open and half-empty in about two minutes, a smear of chocolate appearing on the serpent's mouth. " _Mmm_ . I tell you, angel, the Belgians really know their craft. That North American milk-chocolate nonsense can't even compare. Mm, mm." He all but purred as he sucked wayward chocolate off his thumb, and then considered the question. "California. There's been unrest in the capital, and apparently I'm meant to instigate a _very_ expensive string of riots."

"California." Aziraphale breathed the name dreamily. "Oh I hope you have a good time. Do try to inconvenience that horrible man they have running things a little extra for me." He smiled sweetly, then added, "I am headed to Persia. There's to be a large event there soon, but I haven't yet been told what it is. Probably another war. I wish they'd just stop that. But I do know I'll be there for a while, and I've been given a large miracle allowance, so ... it's not going to be a fun holiday, I can tell you that."

Crowley laughed. "Of course, angel, just for you. I've heard good things about the Napa Valley vineyards, though, so a visit there will definitely be included. I'll bring you back a bottle, if you like." Then he wrinkled his nose. "Good grief, _another_ war? Wars stopped being useful after the Dark Ages, it's not like there's any more space left. The humans really could learn to be kinder to each other." Ah, two sweets left. He looked bashful and offered the box to Aziraphale. "Heh, got a bit enthusiastic with those. Here, you can have the rest."

Aziraphale chuckled and took the box, "It's alright, I owed you some after the bookshop opening. Thank you, dear. I just don't understand why we keep letting it happen. Heaven and wars, I mean. They could easily put a stop to it, but it's always the same: don't interfere, don't try to change it. The only reason I get sent at all is to save a few people. ‘There must be examples,’” the angel said in a mocking tone. “Show the rest of the animals how to go about it: lead a virtuous life, here's your reward.’ Doesn't much seem to be working, but maybe I just don't understand."

Crowley had a few theories and opinions on that, but as they mostly revolved around ancient pagan gods, creation cycles, and Yahweh being a vicious cunt, he kept them to himself. Things were going smoothly between them for the first time in a long while, and Aziraphale didn't need any reminders of that trip down batshit-crazy lane. "The game certainly does seem to be rigged, doesn't it?"

Giving Crowley a sidelong look, Aziraphale eventually chuckled and said, "Yes, well. It doesn't matter much if it is, or if the rules don't make sense to us, it's Her game. We're merely playing our parts in it." But that doubt that had been planted so long ago was at work under the surface. He had to rationalize things now, make himself accept Her seemingly fickle and arbitrary actions rather than simply obey like a 'good' angel should. And, like most people who find their conviction weakened, it only made him fight harder to hold onto it. One day, it would all work out; it would all make sense, and it will all have been worth it - because the alternative was so intolerably horrible that he didn't know if he could bear it. "I'm sure it only _seems_ rigged - everything happens for a reason."

"Right, because the alternative is that life here is completely random and God Herself is to blame for all this suffering, confusion, and death," the demon replied dryly. "The only thing worse than a God who doesn't exist is a God who doesn't give a damn. And well, we can't have people thinking like _that_. " Even if that was exactly what he'd spent the last few centuries encouraging humans to believe. Frankly, the ones who left organized churches behind seemed to lead much happier and fulfilling lives, and that wasn't lost on him. "Oh, don't give me that look, angel. We're Alone, remember?"

Aziraphale made a pained face and squirmed briefly, "I know, but - really." Huffing, he composed himself and ate one of the chocolates, letting the butterfat melt in his mouth. "Mm." He clasped his hands together, and when the candy was gone, he said, "It's perfectly alright for you to think that." Which was a more generous position than he'd held in the past, but really, there was something just... amiss about the whole thing, and if the angel stopped blaming himself for feeling that way - well, it became a very frightening line of thought. "I'll write to you," He offered. "I'll let you know when my mission in the Middle East is done with. We could have lunch! If you're still in California, maybe we could go to the Musso and Frank? They have the most excellent wine list."

Crowley munched on two of the tiny sandwiches while Aziraphale finished the chocolates (not missing a chance to watch the angel savor the sweets from the corner of his eye), he felt his pulse flutter and his stomach grow just a little tight. _I'll write to you._ The letters they'd shared Before had been a delight, and had also been when things began to go wrong. Still, contact was contact, and he was grateful for it. "Whatever you like, angel," he said fondly. "Los Angeles is famous for theatre and dance as well, as I recall. Perhaps we could catch a show?"

"Oh my, I'd love that!” Aziraphale might have, perhaps, given the smallest of wiggles at the idea. “In the twenties, you know, I was very much involved with the theatre scene. Particularly in small revues of alternative subject matter." There was so much good to be done in London then, amongst the struggling actors, dancers, and performers whose identities were not considered acceptable by the mainstream. There had never been a word about sexual orientation when he was educated on right and wrong (humans had come up with that) and he had done what he could to help those who had to hide behind their masks. It was never enough - and remained not enough decades later.

Crowley laughed at that. "That, I can believe. I can definitely see you on a stage, angel, or even just milling about in that scene." He poured more wine for them, looking pleased. "You'll be happy to know, then, that Los Angeles is also rumored to be quite the hub for _alternative_ matters. Which makes sense, I suppose, given its saturation in the liberal arts. Humans with artistic talents seem to be more... flexible in those areas, I've noticed."

Aziraphale scoffed at the suggestion - him, on stage in a cabaret?! Good Lord! "Yes, I am aware. I am very fond of it. And San Francisco, as well. More the reason to join you there if I have the chance." His reaction made Crowley laugh again, loud enough to echo through the empty museum. The angel looked up at the glass ceiling, how it rendered the moon into a luminous mosaic. They'd have to leave soon - in a few hours, the sun would rise and the museum's employees would arrive not long after. It would probably be years before they saw each other again - but not decades, hopefully. Still, it wouldn't do to leave something important unsaid. He continued to stare, the silver light reflecting in his eyes, trying to remember something from very, very long ago.

They settled into an easy silence for a long while, the kind Crowley had come to enjoy, where they were each left to their own thoughts while still savoring the other's presence. He was... happy right now. He'd missed his friend. Happening to glance over, while nibbling on a piece of smoked cheddar, he paused to take in the angel's profile: the familiar rounded features, summer-cirrus hair, and those razor-sharp eyes bathed in silver moonlight _. I love you more than God_. "Something on your mind, angel? You seem pensive."

"A few things," admitted the angel. "I was thinking about when we were at Salisbury, just before - _certain things_ were said. I got carried away with the idea of being free, and suddenly there was something I wanted, right there, that I wasn’t ever supposed to have. I let it scare me into pushing you away, and I don't know if it'll ever stop scaring me. Because I still want it."

"Hm..." Crowley let his mind drift back to Salisbury, a place in his memory he'd been actively avoiding, and tried to think over the conversations they'd had. Quite a few heavy topics had been broached, that was for sure. In retrospect, he could understand why the angel had been scared off. He let his head tilt to the side, curious. "An' what was that?"

"Centuries ago, I kissed you in Rome," Aziraphale explained. "I kissed you in Bacau, and in Patras. In a river in Tunis. In a bazaar in Jerusalem." He gestured with each place-name, as if summoning them into the air. "And in the back of a theatre in London. I was never afraid of Falling for those kisses. But at Salisbury, for the first time, I was afraid. I wanted to kiss you again, but it wouldn't have been between friends or rivals, or for luck, or for wine - it would have been for you."

Remembering each kiss, in each place, filled Crowley with fond memories. His feelings back then had been slightly different then, less developed, less... potent. He remembered the Shakespearean afterparty kiss quite well, though he knew their discussion of it in that other life had been erased. Then he remembered, with vivid clarity, that before the crying and before the anger... Aziraphale had been right there, holding his hand, watching his mouth. _Oh_. His mouth felt dry and he resisted the urge to lick his lips. "And you... still want to do that?"

"Sometimes you can want the thing that is the absolute worst possible choice. You can be absolutely sure it's foolish, or even destructive, and still want it." Aziraphale chuckled, tired of making himself feel like a twit and a cad at the same time. "Of course I do. You are the pomegranate in the hands of Persephone." And though he was so very scared of the winter, he'd never allowed himself to enjoy the spring. It wasn’t the pomegranate's fault. "I want to eat, even if it comes with consequences. I'm just not ready for them yet."

The conversation had taken a turn, and yet it felt similar to one they'd shared Before. Like the seeds of doubt nestled in Aziraphale, the seeds of hope in Crowley had never truly died. He understood the angel's desires, as well as his very real fears. "I want to eat as well," came the husky reply, yellow eyes partially hooded. "I want to eat until there's nothing left." Then his expression became more tender, voice gentler. "But I know the winter shouldn't be taken lightly. Take your time, angel. We have all the time in the world."

"I'm not so sure we do,” the angel murmured regretfully. “There's been talk recently. Mutterings about the prophecy, you know, the Great Plan we're all supposed to be part of. The end of it all. It's coming. Nobody knows when, not yet, but it's going to happen." Aziraphale expected Hell to be just as enthusiastic - probably more so - for all the death and destruction to come when the trumpet finally sounded.

Uneasiness coiled in the demon’s stomach at that news. Hmm. That was a monkey-wrench he hadn't anticipated - at least, not so soon. Crowley, at least, was not anticipating that death and destruction, whenever it might happen. "Well," he said, trying to smooth that idea down so it was less intimidating. "No point in fretting over that when we don't even know when it'll come. Could be millennia from now, who knows?" Only Yahweh, that conniving quim. "My answer is the same."

Aziraphale nodded, nudged the basket aside, and put his hand on his companion's. He didn't know yet how soon those murmurings would bloom into reality, and he was grateful. He held onto the moment for as long as he could, in a lighter, simpler silence. In time, the light from the glass ceiling began to shift into a pinkish-grey with the approach of dawn. "I suppose we should go.”

Crowley hooked his thumb over that hand and stroked once, a small gesture of appreciation, and was content. Alas, the sun was rising and their little rendezvous was at an end. "Yeah, we should." He kissed the angel's knuckles, a delicate brush of lips, and then rose and dusted crumbs off his lap. "Thanks for the picnic, angel. I'll look forward to that letter." Tipping his glasses back down, Crowley quickly stood and sauntered off - he needed to be the first to walk away, could not have borne watching Aziraphale leave again. And when he slipped out of the building, it was into a brand new world and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning like an idiot. 

The demon traveled to his destination in California and managed to stir up quite a row in Los Angeles in 1992, causing over a billion dollars’ worth of collateral damage. He enjoyed the letters from Aziraphale, and they did manage to have a delightful lunch meeting two years later at Musso and Frank’s, as well as see the Broadway production of _A Christmas Carol_ together. Over the next decade, Aziraphale kept his promises and they saw much more of each other: pleasant visits, friendly conversations, evenings drinking and laughing together over shared experiences. The progress between them was quite slow, and Crowley was fine with that. After all, seeds took time to grow, and one thing they had plenty of was time.

Except that, quite abruptly, they did not. 


	17. Weather The Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now, the apocalypse.  
> And perhaps some coffee, while the gents discuss their next move.  
> (Another summary of canon events, with some off-screen additions of our own.)
> 
> (CW: brief discussion of suicide)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Joy_Shines for being our beta reader and editor. :3

Less than twenty years had passed when Crowley first realized that time was, in fact, not on their side at all. Armageddon was right around the corner, and he was given a rather crucial role in it. He felt sick to his stomach, even as he delivered a cooing basket to a dark church. It was too soon, too fast. There was no way the angel had figured out himself and his feelings in the short span of time since they’d made amends, and the demon wasn’t ready to give up on that yet - to say nothing about the easy-going life Crowely had come to enjoy, and the clever host of humanity he’d come to admire. They had to do something. They had to stop it. They needed more _time_.

He called Aziraphale later that night to set up a meeting at St. James’ Park; when they met, he made his case for teamwork: while they sat in the park, at lunch that afternoon, and again, later, in the familiar back room of the bookshop (along with alcohol - quite extraordinary amounts of it). They conversed for hours and hours, bantering and arguing and complaining. Crowley could tell he was wearing the angel down, and eventually he won the game with the proposal that they both “godfather” the Antichrist. And though he felt a spark pass between them when they shook hands on the deal, Crowley tried not to dwell on it. He’d promised to wait. He had to be patient. 

Aziraphale had only just returned to London after his most recent assignment, having returned to Persia (now Iran) to help the civilians rebuild and restructure after decades of violence from the US and their neighboring countries. True to his word, he had written Crowley whenever he had the chance, and when he had a static address, he enjoyed receiving letters back. The communication advanced to phone calls, to meals and shows whenever they found themselves in the same area - and Aziraphale was just about as happy as he'd ever been in his considerably long life.

So, for that matter, was Crowley. Which meant, obviously, that it all had to go to shit. 

To his credit, Crowley had gone to Aziraphale almost immediately - almost. The angel did wonder about his decision to do so _after_ delivering the Antichrist, although perhaps he could understand that (as he didn't have as much free will as he’d have liked, either). So he'd agreed that they’d just have to work with what they had - which had turned out to be an entire case of Domaine de Charbonnière Châteauneuf-du-Pape and an absolutely ludicrous idea that turned out to be a waste of eleven years - even if it had been rather fun at times[12]. 

Those years, despite being futile in the context of their goal, were still some of the best Crowley could recall in ages. Even with the Apocalypse looming over their heads (and all the natural hiccups and drama that came with caring for a quick-witted, sassy human child), her time at the Dowling estate was oddly fulfilling. She felt quite at home in her feminine role and nanny attire, and got quite a chuckle when some of the neighborhood children nicknamed her "Scary Poppins". Unfortunately, despite their hard work, the world was still going to Hell[13] in a handbasket[14], and Crowley was forced to abandon the nanny role, deciding to return to a more masculine presentation as he and the angel scrambled to avert the Great Plan.

After that, things began to move _extremely_ fast, which Aziraphale was not equipped for in the least. Fueled by pure panic, he said some very harsh things and made some questionable choices regarding choosing sides and his standing with Crowley that he'd later regret - but there had been so little time, so few chances to stop and think, to make rational decisions. 

The clash at the bandstand had been unbearable for Crowley. Aziraphale, in panic and terror, had once again completely rejected him and sent him reeling. Even after a second attempt, the angel continued to push him away, and the demon finally had enough. The stress and peril he'd endured Before was laborious, but not without ample reward; even as Aziraphale descended into darkness, there were moments when Crowley was so enveloped in happiness and love that he felt he could take flight - and those moments gave him the strength to carry on. This was torture of a different kind, where everything he desired was constantly stepping just out of reach, and all of his hard work and patience was for naught. After the angel refused to run off with him the second time, he'd sped off with every intention of packing his bags and leaving this whole miserable planet behind.

Every intention, that is, until the bookshop burned down. When he saw the place he'd come to think of as a second home going up in smoke and flames, with no trace of his angel's aura, Crowley suffered a traumatic flashback to Aziraphale's death before Camazotz, so vivid that his knees gave out. _I take it back! I take it all back! Oh gods, why him? Why?!_ He'd screamed and cursed the heavens until he was hoarse, then tucked the nearby book of prophecies under his arm and stumbled from the shop to find the nearest bar and get obscenely drunk. 

Then, in a twist of fate and luck, his angel reappeared… somewhat. The demon wanted to rejoice, to dance, but there was far too much happening at once for him to do so. He had to get to Tadfield, and he did so in the spectacular fashion that only he could achieve..

It all came to a point, sharp enough to pierce Aziraphale’s heart, when they stood side by side with a human child in the face of near certain destruction. The angel had wished he'd been able to say more, to tell Crowley he hadn't meant any of the terrible things he'd said. Mostly, he regretted discovering that he wasn't above reverting to pettiness and bigotry when the chips were down. But there was no time for that - they had a world to save.

Largely thanks to the courage and kindness of Adam and the Them, they (and the world) were granted a reprieve, and in the eerie calm between life and death, Aziraphale had what he believed would be his last chance to apologize.

The Apocalypse was averted - Aziraphale and Crowley had made their stand and gave the Antichrist child just enough time and moxie to reset the clock. Heaven and Hell would have plenty to say to them later, but in the meantime, the pair found themselves sitting next to each other on a bus... and, quite to Crowley’s surprise, the angel had taken his hand. They were quiet for the entire ride and justifiably exhausted when they finally arrived at the demon’s flat. “Sorry for the mess,” Crowley murmured, nodding to the puddle of still-smoking demon goo and the melted bucket in his office doorway. “Didn’t have a chance to clean up.”

"Good gracious,” Aziraphale muttered, wrinkling his nose. He took the liberty of drawing down some power, and the mess (along with the nauseating smell that accompanied it) was miracled away. With that settled, he took a brief look around the flat. Despite Crowley's disdain for Heaven, the angel noted that he'd evidently picked up some of the aesthetics: crisp lines, minimalist furniture, only a few decorations (each with great sentimental value). Possibly the most garish items in the place were the ornate gold-and-red desk and "throne" in his office. And then, of course, there were the plants, all lush and vibrantly green - the demon’s own private Eden. 

"Can I get you anything? Wine? Tea?" Crowley had a little shrine to beverages in his kitchen, given over to his collection of high-tech appliances - the shiniest, smartest coffeemaker, espresso machine, and blender on the market - but there was also a vintage teapot and a box of the brand of tea Aziraphale liked best... just in case a certain angel ever stopped by.

"I think I’d prefer coffee tonight, if you have it,” the angel replied, sinking onto the simple black couch. “I don't know how long we have, and I want to be alert. If we're going to come up with a plan, now is the time." He didn't drink coffee often, but he had to admit that it had its utility and tasted alright with a little sugar and enough cream to placate the entire neighborhood's cats. "It could be tomorrow, or the next day, or in two hundred years, for all we know. But... oh, I just have the worst feeling."

Crowley nodded and turned to his coffeemaker, instructing it to prepare enough for several cups - and to brew it extra-strong. "Me, too," he admitted. "If Satan himself responded that quickly when his plans went to shite, I can only imagine he'll expect his underlings to do the same for me." He stirred a generous amount of fresh cream and two sugars into Aziraphale's drink, and three sugars into his own, and only just kept his hand from shaking as he passed the mug to the angel. "We can't run. Even if we hide in some underground safe place, they'd eventually figure it out."

"Indeed. And we'd be powerless when they did find us." No, that was out of the question. Aziraphale took the scrap of book-paper from his breast pocket and smoothed it out on the surface of Crowley's coffee-table (used for its intended purpose, for once). "We need to figure out a way to convince them to forget about us entirely, to make them think we're not worth the hassle of pursuing further."

Crowley drank all of his coffee in a few long gulps and then set the mug down on the low table, starting to pace in a circle around the couch, muttering and hissing to himself. "What the Heaven could we even do? Ssson of a bitch." He ran a hand through his hair. "Bloody hell, there'sss nothing. The sssafe zones won't hide usss, human witchcraft won't work against their combined power, and we've got no real weaponsss. Aww, fuck me, we're just ducks in a shooting gallery! I'm getting holy water to the face - I'd put money on it."

"Holy water?" Aziraphale was puzzled. "Why holy water? It would be a lot of trouble for Hell to even get their hands on the stuff, and dangerous. As dangerous as angels getting a hold of-" He paused. "Of... hellfire."

The demon made a small, almost exasperated gesture. "I mean, yeah, it doesn't exactly exist down there, but how else would they do it?" Pacing, thinking, pacing, oh gods, they were so buggered. "I'm not getting sent into a ninth-level cell or flayed on a rack for this, angel. I defied my bosses, I erased another demon, I cavorted with the enemy, _and_ I betrayed the cause. I am so very dead, and..." Crowley stopped, corpsepale. "...and so are you, angel. They'll kill you!"

"Yes, I rather think so.” Aziraphale’s tone was softer, almost resigned. “They don't cast angels into the Pit anymore, and they wouldn't want me running around as a demon, anyhow. And there are only a few ways they could do the job. Hellfire is the obvious choice. If I were to Fall before they got to me, I would be immune to it, but I don't know how to begin to go about that. Or if it's even possible... and it does nothing to help your situation at all.” He tapped his nails on his knee, thinking. “What was that star system you were on about a while back? Alfa-Romeo? Do you think they'd come after us there?"

"Alpha Centauri," Crowley said faintly, considering it. They _could_ run off-planet together, hide away in the vast expanse of space. Then, he thought of the creation cycles, and the resting gods, and the malevolent, petty force of nature that was Yahweh, and he sighed. "Not a bad plan, but still no good. Even if Hell gave up on me, your lot would never give up on you. A personal slight against Yahweh herself? Nah, She'd make them follow us anywhere we ran and slaughter us just to make an example of you."

Aziraphale winced at the use of the Almighty's sacred name, which he was forbidden to use. "Oh, I don't think _She's_ all that angry at me, surely. There's nothing you or I could ever do that wouldn't be part of Her Divine Plan." Although he was beginning to think there wasn't an actual plan, other than 'seeing what happens'. "But Heaven, yes. The archangels are ... stubborn. Gabriel's pride should be considered a sin, and I'm sure he'd delight in watching me die. So we face them, one way or another - unless we decide on, er, another option.”

After what he'd seen Before, Crowley didn't doubt for a second that Yahweh could be pissy with a lone angel for wrecking Her plans, nor that She would hold forth divine judgment on him, and he aimed a very dry look at his companion for suggesting otherwise. Then he frowned, resting a hand on a hip. "Another option?"

"Oh - I was just thinking, what if we don't give them the satisfaction? If they...” Aziraphale pointed down and then up. "...have their way, they're not just going to kill us - they're likely going to make us suffer first. Who knows how long they'd stretch it out before they grew weary of it? And... I am prone to thinking my lot would lose interest long before yours. How much of our old selves would remain in the end? Would I even know myself? Would I remember you? Would you remember me?” The angel’s hands were wringing anxiously in his lap, and he glanced up at his companion pleadingly. “If that’s what our futures hold, then wouldn’t it be better to end things on our own terms? You and I - we can create holy water and hellfire whenever we want, can't we? We could make it quick, clean." 

Comprehension descended on Crowley like a thunderclap, and his jaw dropped. The angel was talking about a proper Romeo and Juliet suicide pact, befitting of a literary enthusiast. They would each create the means to erase the other and partake, thus robbing Heaven and Hell of the chance. They could die peacefully, as themselves, together. But there was a small problem: there was no way the demon would allow that. Not a single chance. He would fight everyone above and below with his stupid engine crank first. “No.”

Breath shaky, eyes damp, the angel was about to say something else, and stopped himself at Crowley’s response. “But… Crowley, if we have no chance of surviving this, surely-”

Rankled in a way he’d never been, the serpent clenched his fists and advanced until he hovered over his companion, then snapped his fangs fiercely. “ _No,_ angel. I will _not_ lose you like that. I won’t see you suffer like that. I won’t.” His voice cracked. “I can’t.” 

The angel’s lower lip trembled; he swallowed and slowly nodded. “We can think of something else, then.” Ah, he was such a useless fool, in the end. But what else was there to do? They couldn’t run, and they couldn’t hide. Facing the powers-that-be directly would surely end in disaster. In a twisted way, the irony of it was wonderful: they would meet their ends by fire and water - a pair of perfect opposites, much like they were supposed to be. If only they could- _"Oh!"_ Aziraphale said suddenly.

Crowley, who had stepped away to wipe his eyes and calm himself, jumped a bit at the exclamation. "What? What is it?"

"Fire and water! Crowley, we have to switch places! That's what she was trying to tell us - she, Agnes Nutter, the prophecy! Fire and water!" The angel gestured excitedly. "But how!? You can shapeshift, but I haven't done it since... oh, my goodness, since I was given a human corporation. Oh! You could show me how! Yes, yes! Oh I _knew_ it meant something!"

Aziraphale was talking very quickly, throwing a lot of ideas at him at once, and Crowley had to lean against the wall to catch them all. “Wait, wait, angel, slow down.” Rubbing his face, the serpent tried to sift through the torrent of words. “So- So you think Agnes’ prophecy means that we get through this by disguising ourselves as each other?”

The angel nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! ‘Choose your faces wisely’ is what it said - it makes perfect sense, my dear! You can teach me how to do it, yes? To shapeshift?” 

Shapeshifting, shapeshifting - yes, Crowley could do that, and he was pretty sure he could give the angel a crash course. "Right, all right, that's not a terrible idea, angel. Slight problem: even if we disguise ourselves as something with immunity, it wouldn’t actually _give us_ immunity. And they'd probably still know it was us. We have to go _deep_ undercover. We have to-" He snapped his fingers. "We have to swap bodies."

"Excuse me?" Aziraphale was staring at the serpent like he’d sprouted a second head. He thought back to the comment he'd made a while back about exploding. Was that even an option? "I... have you ever done that? Has _anyone_ ever done that?!"

"I-... well, I've done a few possessions over the years, yeah," Crowley admitted. "Not my favorite tactic - always felt kind of underhanded. And you, I know you've done it before. I saw you today, wearing that redheaded woman's body. I know she had to be willing, but it's the same idea."

"Well yes, but that was a human, and Madame Tracy retained control over her body. I was more of a passenger. Angels have been doing that sort of thing since the beginning. But what you're suggesting - my gosh.” The angel’s face was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of emotion. “Well, we'd have to act like each other, but..." How well did the archangels really know him, anyway? Would they notice if they got an Aziraphale that was a little off? Well - it was worth a try, and it surely beat the alternative.

“Angel, I definitely saw you use her body to almost shoot the Antichrist," the demon said in a dry tone. "That is not 'passenger' behavior." But that was neither here nor there. "Anyways. Yes, we'd have to act like each other, and we'd also have to leave a little piece of ourselves behind. To cover the scent, as it were." 

"Well, I might have taken over once or twice," the angel primly conceded. Crowley hadn’t been there when he'd made Tracey chase off all her clients. But the point remained that, for at least the majority of their shared experience, the human had been present to operate her own limbs and organs, and he hadn't needed to try to pretend to be her. What Crowley had proposed was something quite different. Aziraphale frowned. "Let's forget about that for now, hm? Our bodies are human, more or less, so it is feasible. We have the beginning of a plan, and even if it's insane, it might work. And I think Agnes believed it would work."

"It _is_ insane. It's completely mental," the demon groaned, rubbing his temples. Now that the idea was spoken aloud, he was feeling the urge to backpedal. Him, in Aziraphale's body? Aziraphale, in his body? Aziraphale, in his _head?_ Someone save him. But they had very limited options, and very little time to debate them if they wanted to survive. "Ugh, but most of our plans lately have been bonkers, and her prophecies have all come true, so sod it. I'm game if you are."

Aziraphale hummed, considering. First they had to find out if they could actually switch bodies. The whole ‘angel + demon = kaboom’ thing might be avoidable if they timed the swap just right and avoided having both of them in the same body at once. It was still risky, and Aziraphale had to steel himself, prepare himself for the next steps. "Before we try this, I have to say something, in case it goes awry. First off, I want to apologize for what I said to you, over the last few days. I was just about scared out of my mind, but that's no excuse. I didn't mean any of it. You are my dearest friend, and I am so sorry. And one more thing… come, sit here with me?"

The demon wanted to roll his eyes and chastise the angel, saying that they didn't have time for apologies or penance right now, that more pressing matters were at hand. He didn't want to think about the fight, the cruel words, the fiery bookshop, or anything else. He wanted to think about surviving the trials to come. But he never could deny Aziraphale anything. Looking uneasy, he moved around the coffee table and sat stiffly next to his friend. "I know you didn't mean it, angel.” A pause. “Well, actually no that's a lie - I was pretty sure you did, but... you... we're back together again, so, it's..." Fine? No, it was not fine. He let his voice trail off.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at his companion. "I know you're not about to say something like 'It's alright'. Because it isn't, and I won't pretend it is - not anymore. I don't know what'll happen in the near future, but... could I just have this? Please?" He rested his palm on Crowley's shoulder, smiling,

Once again, the demon's heart fluttered, and he wondered how many times it could bear to be shaken like that before it finally gave out. But Aziraphale was acknowledging that his words had been unkind, which was something rather new... and it felt nice. Then a hand was on his shoulder, and he smiled at the softly spoken request. "Whatever you want, angel." _As much as I have, it's yours._

With a little surge of hope and bravery, Aziraphale leaned toward the demon. "Would you let me kiss you? For good luck? We'll certainly need it." He would be satisfied with whatever Crowley would allow, whatever he would give. He wouldn't push for anything, not a single inch - but he certainly hoped for more than a peck.

 _Oh lord_. Crowley’s eyes widened. Leaning in, leaning in, this was not a game, this was not a drill. Blood seeped into his face. What was allowed? A peck on the cheek? The mouth? Gods, he really wanted Aziraphale’s mouth, but he also didn't want to overstep. Swallowing, he leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to the angel's cheek. Then the other. No pushback. The forehead came next, then the nose, the corner of the mouth... still no pushback. _Fuck it._ The first kiss he laid on the angel's mouth was timid. The second was not.

The timorous touches of Crowley's lips straddled a line between endearing and frustrating, but the demon got there in the end, and Aziraphale brought his other hand up to run his fingers through that spiky, short-cropped hair (possibly the shortest he'd seen it since Germany) and pull his dearest closer. All of his gestures, his very aura, were welcoming, for this was a necessary step: an apology, a confession, and a plea. _Let me show you how sorry I am, how much I want you and need you and love you. Let me prove it to you._

The demon was still waiting for the rejection, for the other shoe to inevitably drop. He was genuinely surprised when it didn't come, or rather, when the exact opposite happened, and he was being embraced. Part of him couldn't believe it, and despite that, his fingers were sliding in that sugar-white hair, cradling the angel’s head in his palms. After a moment, he pulled his face away and stroked the angel's cheeks with his thumbs. "We're going to live," he said softly, but firmly. _I won't let you die again._ "We're going to do this, and we're going to live. Say it back to me."

Still just a bit in shock, Aziraphale nodded slowly, and then repeated, "We… We are going to _live_. We are going to walk away and never look back. And _we_ are going to have all the time in the world." He exhaled, so thankful for Crowley's grounding sense, and kissed that old devil again. They would make it out alive. They would show up all of Heaven and Hell and drop a flaming bag of 'fuck you' on their way out. They would be free.

With that settled, angel and demon set their insane plan into motion and spent the rest of the night practicing, first, how to swap back and forth (this, they did a few times) and then settling into the other's body, learning how to imitate the other in a convincing manner. Waltzing around in Aziraphale's skin, with a flicker of Aziraphale's soul left behind to warm him, was a singularly unique experience, and one Crowley would've liked to savor more if not for the urgency of their situations. And, it had to be noted, the angel was exceptionally good at mimicking his swagger.

***

The next day, the displaced duo went about their regular routines, and Crowley was immensely relieved when he found Aziraphale's bookshop returned to its former glory (courtesy of the young ex-Antichrist). He noticed a few things that were not quite the same, but it was still a miracle beyond anything they could have done or asked for. The disguised demon spent the morning wandering the stacks, touching things Aziraphale would have disapproved of him touching, and trying to look like he belonged there. It was bittersweet and wistful - an ideal interlude. 

Aziraphale was equally pleased to find the Bentley completely restored and, he noted with a smirk, missing the tartan bike rack. Since he wouldn’t dare touch her (he might be borrowing Crowley’s body, but he knew better than to borrow that car), the angel took a taxi across to the South Bank, where he posted some paperwork and did his best to be visible and busy until he needed to return to Soho to meet Crowley in St. James’s Park.

Then everything went down - as planned, but also not quite as planned - and both angel and demon found themselves on trial for treason. 

In Heaven, the archangels were presiding, cold and callous, as Crowley knew they'd be. The demon did his best to perform as Aziraphale, but was unable to resist the chance to spew Hellfire at his accusers, just to see those smug-faced feather dusters shit their pants. "Leave us be, won't you?" he crooned with a smirk. Then he stepped from the fiery column, straightened his tie, and returned to England via the globe portal.

Aziraphale did his best to showboat for the demons waiting to watch 'Crowley' die in a holy bath, going so far as to give them a bit of a strip-tease before the main event - as it were. And then he took his time, laughing and smirking and flicking water about. Crowley's body didn't quite fit him - it was hard to walk in and harder to keep his thoughts centered in the demon's anxious brain. However, he managed it, and he even had a thrilling moment of petty disrespect for Michael, delighting in the Archangel's aghast expression.

When he arrived back on Earth, Aziraphale was running on adrenaline and fumes. By the time they'd had dinner and returned to Crowley's apartment (as he had begged off returning to the bookshop just yet), all the events of the past week dropped heavily upon his shoulders, and he collapsed into the demon's sleek Le Corbusier-style sofa.

Crowley was in a state of numb shock as he stumbled about his apartment, pawing through the liquor cabinet. Holy smokes, they'd done it. They'd actually done it. Were they really... free? It didn't seem real - it _couldn't_ be real. This was the calm before another storm, the breath before the sucker-punch. And yet, here they were, back in his flat, exhausted in every sense but... alive. "I need to drink about half of this," he said wearily, jiggling a bottle of Macallan whiskey. "And then sleep for a week. You?"

"I'll take the other half,” stated the angel. “I don't even need a glass. And yes, at least a week. Are you sure that bus didn't run me over? My goodness." Aziraphale let himself recline back into the sofa, adopting what one could classify as a sprawl - not a patch on Crowley, to be sure, but the whole notion of sitting up straight and proper had apparently gone down the drain in Hell. He lounged and sighed, and shared the oaky, sweet-edged scotch with his demon (his!). When they were about a third of the way into the bottle, Aziraphale smiled indulgently and said, almost in a whisper, "I chose you."

Crowley merely grunted and slumped onto the sofa, letting his head flop back. Aziraphale's bookshop was back, so he supposed the angel wouldn't be staying here... but perhaps it wouldn't hurt if he invested in a cozier sofa. Maybe one of those L-shaped ones, with a pullout bed. The whiskey burned, but it helped to soothe his frazzled nerves. At the whisper, he tilted his head towards his companion. "You did, yeah," he said, quietly. "Even switched bodies with me. Hope it wasn't too awful for you in there, heh."

"What I mean to say is- is that, for a while, I didn't know what was going to happen,” the angel admitted regretfully. “I didn't know if I was going to have a choice about Armageddon, or if I'd just be summoned to duty with no say in the matter. My free will has always been provisory. It could be revoked at any time if She willed it, and I would become a soldier, stripped of all my gentleness and love, unleashed upon the world." Aziraphale held the bottle for a while without drinking from it, merely watching the sway of amber liquid, before handing it back. "I didn't know if I was going to be allowed to be _me,_ once Armageddon started. And I really was hoping you'd run off without me, out into the stars where you'd be safe. I couldn't go with you, because I couldn't trust myself not to hurt you when the call came. But then I was- I was given a choice. And I chose you. Do you understand?"

Crowley accepted the whiskey, merely looking at the angel. The thought of Aziraphale, his soft and gentle angel, being reverted into a tool of violence made his stomach turn. It was far too similar to the life Before, when he watched Aziraphale act as a vessel for Camazotz and then be lost to him forever. His hands trembled, and he clasped them both around the bottle to ease the fidgeting. But although he listened, and understood, Crowley could not accept it. "Yes," he sighed. "And no? As if I'd go anywhere without you, angel. There's not a _point_ to it if-" He stopped himself short, and then took a long drink instead. Shit. "An-Anyways, even if you did turn into a fighting machine, I wouldn't have left. If anyone was going to smite me, I'd want it to be you."

Aziraphale didn't have a good response to that. He’d suspected that was the case, but at the same time, he couldn't bear the thought of it. For a little while, the angel was quiet, pensive; he had a lot more questions now than he’d had a few days ago, and no good way to ask them. Nor was it the right time, yet there they sat, like lead bearings in his chest. After thinking about it for a time, he came to a different conclusion. “If I were ever to raise a hand to you in violence, it wouldn't be me anymore." Then he cleared his throat and waved his hand. "Enough of that sort of talk. Be a dear, and shift over, would you?" He made a gesture toward himself.

There were so many unspoken things between them, countless bricks in a carefully constructed wall that would take quite some time to tear down. Now was not the time to begin, for they were both still too tired and raw from the past week's events. But this... this was a good start. Without questioning it, the demon scooted closer, so that their hips were touching. He raised an arm, letting it hover over the angel's shoulders, meaning to embrace if allowed. "You mind if I...?"

"Please, it was the idea." The angel slid his arm between Crowley's back and the sofa. "I think there's been quite enough space between us recently. I have a lot to make up for." He brought his other hand to brush at the messy, short hair at the demon's temple and caress his cheek. "And I would very much like that nap."

Was he dreaming? He had to be. He'd fallen face-down into his bed and gone to sleep without realizing it, and now he was dreaming. Crowley wrapped that arm around those shoulders and nuzzled into Aziraphale's neck, humming softly and inhaling the comforting scent of rose-and-cedar cologne, old books, and angel - _his_ angel. Everything had changed again. Everything was new and bright and wonderful. "Bed's big enough for two," he murmured, though he didn't much want to move right then.

"I’d imagine so." The angel kissed Crowley's forehead and trailed his hand down the demon's back. He could feel the affection, the spark of happiness in Crowley, glowing brighter with each touch. _When was the last time anyone's been so tender to you?_ He let his breathing even, his heart calm. "I could be convinced to move if you truly want to."

"We prob'ly should, or we'll wake up with stiff necks," Crowley begrudgingly admitted. It took them another fifteen minutes to physically get off the couch and head towards the bedroom, and each of them was sort of pulling the other along while trying to stay as physically connected as possible. The demon shed his clothes down to tank top, underwear, and socks, and fell dead asleep on his stomach, with his arm thrown across Aziraphale's chest.

For a moment, the angel had the thought that they probably shouldn't sleep for a week - but then he remembered that it didn't matter, and they could if they wanted. It would certainly be a record for him - so far as he knew, he'd rarely taken more than a few hours in cases of fatigue. This... well, he'd find out when he woke up.

Perhaps they'd get pancakes.

***

12 Aziraphale's grotesque 'gardener' costume hadn't been as ridiculous as it looked; it made humans just uncomfortable enough that they left him alone and didn't ask many questions, and there was the added bonus of watching 'Nanny' struggle with possibly the most atrocious thing she'd ever laid eyes on. He looked like a caricature from a Dickensian play, and she'd laughed for a full five minutes the first time she saw him. [return to text]

13 Literally.[return to text]

14 Figuratively.[return to text]


	18. These Arms Of Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Armageddon averted, our renegade angels take a well-deserved nap, and then have some deep talk over breakfast. What do they want for their futures? What do they want right now?
> 
> Thank you to Joy_Shines, our beta and editor.
> 
> Sorry for the lateness, life got at us. The next chapter is likely to be late as well, but we're nearly at the end of it!

If Aziraphale had slept a full week or not, Crowley had no way of knowing. What he _did_ know was that _he_ certainly had, and that he’d needed every second of it; barely even twitching, the weary demon’s body and soul gradually recharged and returned to a semi-normal state. And during that time, he dreamed. 

Crowley dreamed of their fight at the bandstand. He dreamed of Alpha Centauri, of fleeing to the stars with Aziraphale. He dreamed of the sensation of dwelling in the angel's body, feeling the softness of it curling over his own razor-sharp edges. He dreamed of the bookshop, watching it burn, believing Hellfire had destroyed Aziraphale; he dreamed of Camazotz's lair and Aziraphale's cold body hitting the ground, over and over. It was that dream, in particular, that made him stir and start whimpering, fingers groping empty sheets.

Having woken a few days earlier, Aziraphale had nonetheless not strayed far. He made himself tea, read the few books in the flat, and tried to figure out how the fancy television remote worked (without much success, resulting in him watching a weather forecast for Manchester for a half hour and then giving up). It saddened him greatly that Crowley was still having nightmares, but he reasoned that the poor fellow needed rest and resisted the impulse to wake him until the sense of distress had become impossible to ignore.

When Aziraphale returned to the bedroom, he could hear the demon's muted cries, and they made his chest ache. Leaning over the edge of the bed, he reached out to touch Crowley, hesitated, and then let himself gently stroke the demon's lean back. "Hello, dear. It's me. Time to wake up."

In his dreams, Aziraphale had fallen to the ground... inside the burning bookshop? Crowley whined softly - now his brain was just being a wanker. Even so, he was afraid to wake up, lest he find that he was alone, and that everything he cared about was gone. _Powerless to stop it, once again. I never should have left him alone. I should have pleaded for mercy. Now my angel is gone, really gone, and I couldn't- he couldn't-_

A soothing touch was on him, a warm trail along his spine. Partial consciousness struck him, and one hand twitched. His face was sticky with dried tears. "Dead," he rasped sluggishly. "You're dead, the fire got you, he took you away. I'm so sorry, come back..." He continued to babble like that, arms shaking, breath coming in shaky little gasps.

"I'm right here, Crowley. Wake up now, you're in your own bed and we're alright. We made it through. Come now, there you are." Aziraphale brushed his friend's hair back from his forehead with his warm, smooth palm. He sat on the bed next to the shivering demon and hummed a bit of the tune of Maurice Ravel's 'Bolero' as he stroked through the other being's mussed red locks, hoping to calm and bring Crowley back to him.

"S'crazy talk," the half-conscious creature muttered. Ah... something was touching his head, his hair... it was so warm. "Nm..." Gradually, his tense expression relaxed and the shivering lessened, and only then did sleep fully release him. Inhaling, Crowley blinked awake to the sight of Aziraphale next to him, looking both concerned and affectionate. ".... you're still here?" It was not accusatory, but heart-meltingly hopeful.

"Of course, I ..." _I gave up everything I once knew to be with you, I'm not going anywhere._ "I'm right here." The angel tugged at the lapel of the borrowed robe he was wearing and scooted over enough to let Crowley sit up. "At least you slept peacefully for most of the week." He smiled, and though he knew better than to ask about the nightmares, he stayed there until his friend was ready to talk or get out of bed.

Crowley sat up slowly, looking as though he'd forgotten how to properly work his body. All the while, he kept his eyes on the angel, as though fearful that his friend would vanish if he looked away. But there in front of him, Aziraphale was not dead, not burned away or trapped in the Mitnal. Aziraphale was right there, solid and warm, smelling of flowers and tea leaves. 

Tentatively, he scooted closer and then reached out to touch the robed shoulder. The angel couldn't help flinching, and Crowley jerked his hand away. Neither of them were used to touching or being touched - it was never allowed between them and not encouraged among their peers, above or below. But Aziraphale recovered quickly and placed the demon’s hand back on his shoulder, nodding affirmingly. Smiling slightly, Crowley slid his palm over his friend’s nape and up into the downy celestial hair. It felt like a silky cloud around his fingers, and he had to resist the urge to rub his entire face in it. 

Crowley sighed softly, looking relieved. "G'morning, dove."

Aziraphale hummed at the touch, strange but wonderful. "Good morning, dearest. How lovely to see you awake again." He noted the pet name - Crowley had definitely called him that in the past, but only rarely. "Would you like some tea? Breakfast? I've been perfecting a recipe for Shakshuka."

The demon eventually withdrew his hand. "Um... coffee would be nice. Maybe some eggs, yeah - I think I have eggs."

"Oh, you do. I took the liberty. There's some cheese and orange juice and bread, if you'd like toast. I could make a simple omelet, unless you'd just like them fried." The angel put his hand over Crowley's for a moment and then stood up. "And then, I suppose, we ought to talk. When you're ready."

Crowley made a mental note to start stocking his fridge with more than just the bare minimum, and then flushed slightly from the casual touch. Was that going to be a regular thing? Oh, he hoped so. "An omelet sounds good. Um... let me shower, and then... yeah." He rolled from the bed and stretched, rolling his shoulders once, and then headed into the adjoined bathroom. The hot water and rhythm of the massaging shower-head felt lovely against his skin; when he re-emerged from the bathroom, plumes of steam behind him, wrapped in a plush black terry-cloth towel, the demon looked and felt much better. With a tiny miracle, his favored black silk pajamas appeared on his body, slippers on his feet - his hair was dry, his breath was fresh, and the towel was back on the door. Satisfied, he joined Aziraphale in the kitchen/living area. "Oh, something smells good."

Aziraphale was standing in front of the excessively fancy and - he was sure - never-before-used range, with a pancake-flipper in hand, and a bowl of sauteed onions waiting to go into the skillet once the cheese had melted down. The coffee was finishing its grumbling percolations, a full pot waiting next to a pair of empty mugs and a fresh quart of light cream. "I do believe that's you." The angel quipped, picking up the bowl and shaking the onions out into the solidifying eggs.

Crowley snickered and then paused a few feet to the left of the angel, pondering the sight before him. After the wild adventures they'd been on in the last week, along with everything else that happened over the last eleven years, seeing Aziraphale wearing one of his robes and doing domestic kitchen stuff was... odd. But he couldn't say he disliked it. "Y’need any help?"

"You could get out a couple of plates and some cutlery, if you please - and pour some coffee for us while I plate this." After skillfully folding the omelet, the angel used the edge of the spatula to cut it in half, then sprinkled a bit more cheese on the outside and turned both pieces over to crisp up. "Do you ever cook? The kitchen’s so clean - or do you just use your power to keep everything looking brand new?"

Nodding, the demon dutifully went about setting the table and pouring coffee, as well as setting out salt and pepper shakers. "Bit of both? I don't really cook, but when I do, I just snap it clean again." Did baking pizza rolls to eat with his whiskey during a Golden Girls marathon count as cooking? He had a feeling it didn't. "I can see you do. You're right at home at the stove."

The angel chuckled. "Ah, well, ever since I bought that little television set, I've taken up watching a few cookery shows. I've tried to pick up what I can from them. There are some things I can't quite get, like that knuckle-chopping trick, but I don't mind taking a few extra seconds to dice a shallot." He brought the skillet over and slid the halves of the omelet onto the two plates. "There we go. Do you want sugar for your coffee?"

"Ahh." Crowley hadn't the faintest idea what ‘knuckle-chopping trick’ was being referenced, but it didn't really matter. "Thank ya. Ah, three lumps please." Once they were both seated, the demon sipped his coffee and dug in. Eating in his own flat, with Aziraphale across from him... another new experience that he couldn't say he disliked. He thought, perhaps, he might like to have breakfast with Aziraphale more often. Perhaps he could learn to cook a few things the angel liked, to keep it balanced. He hiccuped once when his plate was empty and then patted his stomach. "Mm. Blimey. That hit the spot, angel, thanks for that." As if he wasn't going to lick the plate clean the first time Aziraphale cooked for him. And it really had been very good. 

"It must have done! I don't think I've seen you clear your plate like that... ever. But to be fair, I'm not usually here when you wake up, so I can't really speak to that." The angel grinned, still working on the last of his. "It is good, though, a solid recipe." And when he was done, he collected the plates and put them above the dishwasher. "Yes... Quite solid." He stood there, watching the fancy modern refrigerator display cycle through various messages: _5 degrees Celsius. -8 degrees Celsius. 10:17 am._ He returned to the table once he'd composed himself and sat down to finish his coffee. "And now here we are." He said, inviting a shift in their conversation.

"Usually breakfast is just coffee," Crowley admitted. Golden eyes tracked the angel’s pauses and gestures over the mug's white rim, and he realized his companion was nervous. Well, that made two of them. "Ye-p," he agreed quietly, setting the mug down, thumbnail idly scraping over the handle. "You, er... You said you wanted to talk? Did you... that is..." He wasn't good at this. "What about, then?"

"Ah, yes. I've had a couple days to think," Aziraphale dithered, gesturing with the hand not occupied by a cup. "Along with getting the shopping in and learning to use the range and all, just thinking. What happens now? Do we just go back to how it was before? Me in my shop, you staying here, and the two of us meeting up for dinner or lunch every now and then, or laughing over bottles of Bordeaux in the evening? Not to say,” he hastily added. “That I wasn’t enjoying that, because I was. Overall, it wasn't a bad way to go about things. But we can do what we want now, can't we...? Can we?"

It was the same question on Crowley's mind, though he'd had much less time to mull over it and no ready answers. He sucked his upper lip over his teeth briefly, thinking. Aziraphale was right: the system they'd been using for centuries, on its own, wasn't all that bad. "Don't see why we can't," he eventually murmured thoughtfully. "I mean, I made sure that Heaven thinks you're a mad bastard - they shouldn't be bothering you anytime soon. They're probably trying to cover the whole thing up." Another coffee sip. "I didn't hate the way we did things, either. Maybe you could... come over here more? Maybe stay over a couple times a week? I, uh- I know it's kinda stark right now, but I could... make it more, um, comfortable." He was flushing. Dammit.

"I'd like that,” Aziraphale smiled. “There's a lot I'd like to do more of. I do believe I've made you a few promises I have yet to deliver on. Like a proper picnic, for one." The angel put his mug down and raised both hands, palms toward the table, taking a deep breath. "I owe you so much." He lowered his hands to his lap. "The whole world does, really, but you did so much for me. I was cruel, I wasn't there for you - and yet you still came through. I feel like maybe... someone should take care of you for a change. Show you some of that kindness you deserve."

The thumbnail was scraping more anxiously on the mug handle now. Crowley didn't want to be taken care of. He didn't want to be coddled and loved on and lavished with affection, and he also desperately wanted all of those things and more. "I didn't do any of those things so you'd owe me, angel," he finally said, unable to look up. "So if you want to care for me, or take me on picnics, or anything else, don't just do it because of some debt you've racked up in your head. There isn't one, got it?"

"Well of course I _want_ to, Crowley,” Aziraphale huffed. “I want to shower you with all the bloody affection I've been forced to bottle up for centuries. All the times I've wanted to take your hand and console you, all the times I've had to stop myself and act all 'holier-than-thou' because of course I _was_ , but I knew that didn't make me better than you." The angel rolled his eyes and leaned forward across the table. "Crowley. I wish you could sense emotions as I do. You'd know how much I care about you, just like I know how deeply you do for me. And I do feel as if things are owed, yes. I thought it would be easier for you to stomach kindness if it were couched in payment of a debt."

The flushing was getting deeper, the serpent's shoulders tense; when Aziraphale leaned forward, he leaned back. "I _can_ feel them," he said in a low, pained voice. "How d'you think demons know how to tempt others, angel? We were angels once and we feel _everything_ , and it drives us crazy so we- we shove it down, or we channel it into other things. Or we just... snap, and turn into beasts." He swiveled the mug on the table. "I could always sense how you felt. Always. Every time. The problem was that I didn't believe it - y'know, thought it was a glitch. Then when I realized it wasn't a glitch, I couldn't act on it." This was true, regardless of the timeline.

Aziraphale sat up abruptly, looking stunned and then remorseful. "You can - of course you can, oh how ridiculous of me. I was told demons couldn't feel love as angels do. And when you couldn't sense anything near Tadfield, I just thought - well, that follows, doesn't it? Crowley, I am so sorry. I'd envied you the numbness you didn't have." 

"....well. At least you know now." It seemed Heaven's indoctrination against demons went deeper than Crowley realized, and he couldn't rightly be upset with his angel over that. Aziraphale knew the truth now, and that's what mattered. 

The angel fidgeted in his seat and glanced down at his hands. "And all your nightmares. I think I understand something. My dear, I have a confession, if you'll hear me out."

Crowley’s body language had relaxed, though one eyebrow did raise in curiosity. His nightmares? "Oh?"

"The fact of the matter is, Crowley, that we have embarked on an entirely new level to our relationship last week. Being you, even for a day, was... incredibly enlightening. But I think you should know everything that happened. After you left, I did my best to do what you would do, in case anyone was watching through your electronic devices or the windows or what have you. And so I changed into your pyjamas, and I lay down, and I fell asleep. Surprisingly easily, in fact." Aziraphale shrugged and eyed his mug. "Would you care for some more coffee?"

The demon nodded in agreement. He was fairly sure that they'd done something no angel-demon duo had done before, and part of him was bubbling with pride at their combined craftiness. Wondering what Aziraphale had experienced while inhabiting his body filled him with equal parts curiosity and dread. "Sure," he replied, sliding his mug over for a refill. "And that's not a surprise - sleep comes easy when your mind runs itself to exhaustion." A frown crossed his face. "No one bothered you, did they?"

Aziraphale continued as he fetched the coffee pot to refill their cups. "No, not until I was smacked across the head by your lovely co-workers."

"Good." Crowley said. _I'm going to kill them._

The angel cleared his throat and sat back down, setting the nearly-empty coffee pot on the table as well. "The thing is, ah, I had some interesting dreams, and I think I might have seen some things that I wasn't supposed to. Some of your memories, left embedded in the grooves of your brain, as it were. Not that I'd ever deliberately invade your privacy - I didn't even take off your shorts - but these were ... unavoidable."

Crowley was slightly relieved that Aziraphale had been able to restrain himself from snooping (he knew it had been hard to resist, because Crowley himself had struggled to behave in Aziraphale's body). The demon deliberately kept important memories and feelings, parts of himself not easily revealed, tucked deeply away in padlocked boxes. But dreams... dreams were another matter entirely. "... what did you see?"

"Oh, not all that much. Flashes, little snips here and there. One was a cave that I knew was terrifying, but I couldn't discern why. Another was... apparently endlessly cutting at vines or roots with a machete." The angel gave Crowley a level look. "And then there were, ahh... many, _many_ images of me. And in a lot of them I was... unclothed. And so were you."

The first two snippets provoked little reaction other than recognition. Crowley remembered the cave, yes, and he remembered hacking furiously at that basket-weave fungus. The first had come with a costly success; the second had come with a costly failure. The third made him freeze with the coffee mug halfway to his mouth and blush to the roots of his hair. "Oh," he squeaked. Carefully, he set the mug back down, not trusting himself to hold it any longer. "That, um... that was... nnn-we were... in parts of my visions, we were, um, _unclothed_ quite a bit."

"I know, you did try to tell me-" A pause, and Aziraphale shrank slightly in his seat. "Ah. And I reacted rather horribly, didn’t I? Despicably, actually. You were so close to pouring your heart out, and I just dropped the whole thing on the floor. Ah, you see?" The angel glanced up from under his frost-rime eyelashes. "I _do_ have things to make up for, if only for being a complete bell-end. Er, what was I talking about? Oh, right. Crowley, those visions, what I saw and felt - I don't think we _can_ just go back to how things were. It was… oh, it was so intimate and lovely, and I am positively seething with envy for the version of me in your dreams."

"Guess you understand now what I meant by 'keeping the good with the bad'." Despite himself, the serpent felt his mouth twitch in a smile. It was funny, he thought, to hear an angel admit to envy... over a past version of himself, no less. "Well, there's no reason we couldn't... y'know, add _that_ to the mix. At the very least, I'd like to have more physical contact with you. For example... um..." He looked bashful. "...when I saw you cooking, I wanted to kiss the back of your neck, all casual-like. That kind of thing. To embrace you when I see you, or kiss you for no reason, and have you do the same to me."

There was a certain look Aziraphale got when his heart battled with his indoctrination. And it was there, in the particular purse of his lips, in the way his forehead rumpled between his eyes. The angel nodded, and then looked away, "It's been a while, hasn't it? Since we’ve done anything of the sort.” Since they'd done much more than shake hands, since they'd been openly affectionate - not since Stonehenge, or the Pergamon at least. "I think I'd like that." He said - the uncertainty rooted in his never having been kissed on the back of the neck, never casually embraced that way. The angel had been in the beds of a few humans, but he had been there to comfort and heal them - they were not lovers in the sense that equals could be to each other. "Those scenes were very vivid.” Aziraphale said, quietly. “I saw a lot of things I’d like to do with you. I'll have to make a list."

Crowley was grateful he'd decided to put his mug down, or he'd have dropped it. Still, embarrassed or not, the serpent was happy to be having conversations in this area. He needed touch; he'd gone so long without it. And he had a hunch that Aziraphale felt similarly. But with everything new and different, they both needed to take it slow. "I'd like to look it over when you're done. In case anything got left out." A tiny grin. "Curse of a photographic memory."

"They were realistic, too - you knew what you were doing. I haven't had that much experience, but I've observed my fair share." The angel was getting a healthy glow, himself. "But that's... well, that's a matter to get into after we've sorted out everything else. For the first time in my life, I have no goals, nothing that I'm working toward. What do I do now? What do _we_ do? I think we're destined to do it together... whatever ‘it’ is. After all of this... if you went off again, I would miss you dreadfully."

It took concentrated effort for Crowley to keep his body from showing the effect that a blushing Aziraphale had on it. Focus, focus - they had other things to discuss. Important things. "I don't really go in for things like 'fate' and 'destiny'," he replied, feeling confident enough to sip his coffee once more. "But whatever we do, working as a pair is a requirement. I thought I lost you for good so many times - I can't have it happen again, angel. I need you nearby."

The angel was pensive for a moment. "For a long time, I thought I knew what was best, what was right. And recently I've come to see that it was hubris. Which is a twist enough, since I had been made to believe that angels couldn't be hubristic by definition. But it would seem that I was wrong about many things. And among the things I am grateful to you for, the little voice that has led me to question my own assumptions has always been yours." Aziraphale turned the mug around in his hands. "I don't think I want to go anywhere without you anymore."

Oh no... Crowley was happy - and there wasn’t just a touch of it this time, but a softly spreading light that wove through his veins. Aziraphale would surely be able to sense it, and Crowley didn't bother to mitigate or mask it this time. "You could live here for awhile, f'you like," he offered softly. "I mean, I know I already said that before, but that was when you had nowhere else to go, on account of the shop being... y'know. But you do now, thanks to our Antichrist, so... that is to say, my offer still stands."

"I've already been here over a week,” Aziraphale mused. “And I do think at some point I'll need to go check on the shop. But I think I will be here far more often. Perhaps I'll bring over a few things to make the place cozier? A throw and a few pillows for the sofa?" 

"That's fine. I could buy a more comfortable couch, one of those nifty kinds with a pullout bed.” Assuming Aziraphale didn’t want to sleep in his bed with him, but the angel gave him an inquiring look and he changed tacks. “You could... leave some clothes here, as well?" 

The angel chuckled, "Clothes? My dowdy duds next to your stylish attire? Scandalous.” They both snickered, and then Aziraphale grew thoughtful again. “You know, that Adam lad is rather a wonder. He's given us both our lives back, but mine in a more literal sense. I have a vested interest in keeping that boy happy and safe." 

Crowley nodded. He also wanted to keep an eye on the Ex-Antichrist, and on ‘Book Girl’ as well - it seemed both of them had played major roles in averting a global firestorm of death and devastation. He also had a fondness for ‘Crazy Dress Lady’ - she was sassy and confident, and a demon had to respect that (and she’d also been a good vessel for Aziraphale). And there was also Shadwell, who was rather like a nasty, pissy old cat you didn’t really like but you’ve had around for so long it’d feel wrong to kick it out now. Best to watch over them all.

Aziraphale finished his omelet, set his plate aside and bent forward, folding his arms on the table. "Tell me what you want, Crowley. What do you see in the future?"

What did the demon see in the future? What did he want? Such questions had never been aimed at him before. "I'd also like to watch over Adam and the others, and check in on Warlock now and then," he replied quietly, after some thought. "And... I want a garden - a proper one with flowers and herbs and vegetables and fruit trees."

"I have money. I'm not entirely sure how much, but I'm sure it's enough that we could buy a house. A sweet little cottage not too far from London. You could keep your flat if you like. And I'll keep my shop - I am ... attached to it." And after the grand gift of its restoration, how could he leave it? Aziraphale tilted his head and smiled sweetly, wistfully. "And we could put in a garden together."

Together? Together with Aziraphale, down in the dirt, putting baby plants into soil beds? Watering them, nurturing them, putting fresh flowers on the table and homegrown food on their plates? The light was growing in him again, making his eyes shiny, and he opened his mouth to agree, to say how pleasant that sounded. But what he said was, "I love you."

The angel’s reply was immediate and full of warmth. "I love you, my dear. You fill my heart. You fill me with joy when I hear your voice. You fill my world with fun and frustration and curiosity and richness." He slid his hand toward Crowley, palm up, entreating. "Wherever you go, so shall I go. For I would not live long without my heart, and that is yours."

Never had the serpent’s hand moved faster. The joy he'd sacrificed was miraculously within reach again, and he'd be damned twice if he let it slip away. "You're everything," he rasped, unable to stop himself, both hands clasping now. "My north star, my bulwark, my reason to live and die. Being inside your body, surrounded by the softness of your soul - that was when I knew I could never be apart from you again. You... felt like home, angel."

"You are my home, Crowley. So we'll make a home together. And we'll visit all the places we've never been together, and we'll be part of the world together. And when I said I wanted to take care of you, I didn't mean like a child or an invalid. I meant... I want to be there for you, and make you feel as cherished and wonderful as you are." Aziraphale squeezed the hand he'd been given to hold. "I want the chance to show you."

Crowley was grateful for the clarification; perhaps having someone there to cherish him wouldn't be so bad. "... I'd like that. That can be the plan for the future. _Our_ future. Whatever we do, wherever we go, it's together. That's a promise." He lifted one of the angel’s hands and pressed his mouth to the knuckles, and the touch of it was searing hot.

"Goodness, you're warm, Crowley. You're not running - oh that's silly, a demon can't get a fever. I don't think. Ah, and your face is so..." Aziraphale was thinking 'flushed', but he paused when he realized why, and he laughed, "Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful." He stood up and came around the table, still holding onto Crowley's hand, and he smiled, "May I kiss you, now?"

Joy was radiating from the demon now, warming his body and coloring his face. As the angel crossed over, he automatically turned his chair to the side to make a place for his friend to stand. Aziraphale was right there, looking down as Crowley looked up, and energy crackled softly between them. His spine and neck straightened, reaching. "Pleassse."

Bending his knee, Aziraphale placed his hands on either side of Crowley's jaw and pressed his mouth to the demon's. It felt just as bright and singing along his nerves as the first time - if rather more coffee-flavored and far less shy. This kiss didn't plead, or soothe, or comfort - it wanted.

Inside Crowley’s slippers, toes were curling. Before he realized it, his hands were sinking into the front of that robe, gripping the plush fabric and pulling Aziraphale closer. "Bless it, I had more to ask you, and tell you," he panted against that sweet mouth. "But now it's gone clear out of my head."

After what he considered an appropriate amount of time for what they were doing to count as a 'snog', Aziraphale pulled back a little. "I'm sure you'll recall it. You can ask me whatever you like whenever you do. Would you like me to sit back down and wait?"

"Don't you dare." The demon dragged the angel back in, kissing his mouth once more, and then down along that soft jaw and neck. This was the closest they'd physically been to each other in this timeline, and Crowley was feeling unreasonably greedy. "Bloody hell, you smell so good."

"Crowley, really!" It wasn't a serious admonishment, but Aziraphale caught Crowley's hands and, after kissing him one more time, said, "There will be lots of time for that, I promise. We'll figure everything out together."

The demon’s face was taken over by a look of intense need, pulse beating in his ears. He wanted... he wanted... he just _wanted,_ bless it, and that lustful want rippled off him without restraint. However, Aziraphale was right. _Too much, too fast,_ he felt his instincts whisper. And Crowley still had questions. "...right. Lots of time." Exhaling slowly, he released the robe and sat back. "Lots of time," he repeated more for his own sake, and then licked his lips and swallowed.

Aziraphale tugged his chair over so they weren't sitting on opposite sides of the table, and took Crowley's hand again as he sat. "You told me you had more to say, and I don't want to interfere with you being able to say it."

"How restrained of you," the demon chuckled, if a bit breathlessly. A few more breaths calmed his libido, and he was glad for the grounding weight on his hand. "Phew... okay. Yes. Let's see." The wheels in his brain were turning again. "Ah- the bookshop. So before Adam reset things, your shop went up in a fireball and... and you weren't inside, anywhere. I couldn't sense you at all. What in the world happened?!"

"Oh,” said the angel, in the manner of one who’d entirely forgotten an important thing. “Right. That - oh, it was all my own fault, I was playing at such foolishness. Forgive me." And the angel paused as he was about to go on - he closed his mouth and pursed his lips, tapping a finger to his chin just once. "Crowley... you were muttering about fire when you were asleep earlier. How do you know I wasn't inside?" He was fairly sure he knew the answer, but he needed to hear it.

 _I'm just chatty as the dickens when I'm sleeping, aren't I?_ Crowley shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn't like thinking about this part. "Because I went in." His voice was quiet, gaze fixed somewhere far away. "Came to see if I could convince you to come away with me one more time, and looky there, the whole place is gone up like a matchbook. So what do I do? I run in, screamin' like a fool, thinking maybe you were stuck under a shelf or something, and you were just gone and- and I thought 'well that's it then, they got him' and-" The words got stuck when he choked, eyes shiny with tears. "-and I thought I'd never see you again."

Putting his other hand over Crowley's, Aziraphale exhaled, "I am so sorry. I truly am. It was my fault. I was trying to get some answers, and I was doing a ritual to open a channel, and I'd just been talking to the Metatron - who was no help at all - and somehow Mr. Shadwell got in. I was certain I’d locked the door, but- well that hardly matters now. Regardless, Mr. Shadwell had got in, and he was going to go stomping right into an open portal to Heaven, and I just had to stop him. And well, I got disoriented, wound up stepping into the circle myself, and up I went, leaving several unattended holy candles in my shop. I wasn't there, but I can imagine what happened next."

Crowley blinked, and then blinked twice. "So it was... just..." He dragged his free hand down his face and left it there, slumped in his seat, and gave a sort of helpless laugh. "'Course it was! 'Course it was... I mean, I knew you can be daft sometimes, dove, but that shop is your baby. There's no way you wouldn't fireproof it. So I thought the only way it'd go up like that would be... well, one of our bosses."

"Oh no, I did!” the angel clarified. “I actually did put a fire-safety blessing on the entire place. But I was using sanctified candles, and that blessing would have only protected against mundane fire, not Holy candles. I knew it was risky to use them, but I thought it was worth it. And I couldn't have predicted that awful, judgmental man would come bursting through my door. I don't think I'll be sending him a Christmas bonus this year... Ohh, even though he did try to help save the world, in his own way. Ah, never mind that."

"I'll be sending him something, all right," the demon growled, nail tapping irritably on his knee, realizing that a certain double-dipping Witchfinder had caused his angel (and himself) a great deal of distress. After all, just because one didn’t plan to kick out the pissy old cat didn’t mean one couldn’t also give it a spritz from a spray bottle for being a git. "A big, fat box of rainbow glitter that explodes when you open it, for example. He'll be picking it out of his carpet for years."

"An exploding- oh good heavens, is that another of your nefarious inventions?" Aziraphale tutted softly. "Well if you do, sign my name, too." He drank the last of his coffee, and pushed the cup into the middle of the table. "I didn't realize at the time that you thought you'd lost me. I _couldn't_ think about that. I couldn't even think about my shop being burned. I needed to get back, I needed to save you - well, everyone. Not that I actually did much. You were the one who paused everything and gave us a moment to think. You were wonderful and clever, my heart."

Crowley simply nodded and chuckled, and then listened. "Well," he murmured. "You _did_ try to shoot Adam at my insistence, but I'm actually quite glad that didn't pan out. We really were scrambling there at the end, weren't we? I wasn't even sure the time-freeze thing would work against the Big Man himself." Then he smiled and squeezed the angel's hand. "Then again, I had to do _something_. Couldn't have you never talking to me again."

"That wasn't just me being petty. I was afraid we'd never see each other again if we lost our bid, there." Aziraphale smiled at the squeeze around his fingers. "I'd have been forced to fight, and you... well, I'd hoped you'd run. Get far away... Even if I couldn't go with you."

"I know. But I also knew it was too late to run. When you came to me while seeking a body, I was drinking myself stupid in a pub because you were gone and none of it mattered. There was no running for me." The demon's face grew more somber. "I considered all the outcomes, you know - if we won, if yours won, if mine won. If the Apocalypse were restarted and the heavenly host called to battle, I knew there was a good chance that you'd be called as well. And... that was fine. I know I said before, but if someone had to strike me down, I'd rather it be you than anyone else."

"I understand why you say that,” Aziraphale murmured, looking conflicted. “But if I had - I don't know that I'd be able to survive that. Ah, but we're free now, aren't we? Could we just pretend for now that we'll always be free?" What were the odds that there would never be another attempt to end the world, to start the war, to drag them all screaming into it? They might have days or years or centuries - the angel couldn't know. But he could live in the moment.

"We are." Crowley brought that hand to his mouth again. "And if it means sharing a life and building a garden with you, the one whom my soul loves, then I'll pretend as hard as I can." Then he looked a trifle uneasy. The questions he had next moved into uncomfortable territory, and he was loath to even broach the subject. "Though I may, um, need a fair bit of reassuring that you... well, that you mean all that. That you intend to follow through."

Aziraphale nodded slowly, "Of course. I do have a lot to make up for. And I hope you'll allow me to redeem myself. I know it could take a long time, and I will be patient. And if you'd permit me to pamper you a little - nothing over the top, but more cooked meals, more open affection... maybe a foot rub? That could be a start." Then he caught himself. "Ah - but don't let me interrupt, please, go on."

The serpent nodded and then went quiet for a moment, thinking, trying to figure out what exactly he wanted to say and the answers he needed to find. "Everything is new and different," was what finally came out. "And yet, there are things, old things, that I don't understand at all and without knowing, I can't move on to the new things." The fingers on his free hand fidgeted with his pajama shirt. "Like, f-for example... you say you're sorry for your actions and that you want to build a new life with me. But, well, we've reconciled before - Stonehenge and Berlin, just for example. We make our apologies and seem to be all right again, with promises to do better in the future, and then..." This was painful and he hated it. "... and then, inevitably, I get pushed away, and that hurts, angel. Really badly, it hurts. What I need to know is why. If you said those things and you meant them, then why did you keep doing that?"

Upon hearing this, Aziraphale had gone somewhat pale, with two splotches of pink on the cheeks, and he glanced aside. "I've... I have thought about that. I'm a coward, Crowley. I have to put it down to that. I thought, oh, for a long time - that I was protecting you. And that I was protecting myself. And I told myself, well it's not as if a demon can love me, not really... and one day he'll get tired of trying and go off again." The angel frowned and hurried to add, "But of course I knew you wouldn't. I don't think I ever believed that." Fiddling with his fingers, Aziraphale was facing a source of immense shame. "But the truth is... that I still thought there was some greater value in being a good angel. I'd already lost a pair of wings and the respect of my former peers, and I was terrified of being humiliated again. I told myself that it was worth holding onto what I had, that if I were to be stripped down any further, I wouldn't be able to protect anything that mattered. Certainly not you. But it wasn't worth it - I only have regret for those actions."

The demon listened quietly to Aziraphale's explanation, watching the emotions flash and twist across his face, watching the struggle it took to confess it. Completely justifiable anger was simmering in his stomach. The angel had been afraid, and also proud, and in his fear and pride he'd lashed out repeatedly at Crowley. The anger never came to a full boil, however. Crowley remembered, albeit distantly, the effect that Heaven could have on one's psyche - how it could twist and bend, mold impressionable minds into soulless drones that could only think and do what they'd been taught. He knew the pain of defying that molding; it had cost him everything. "Why didn't you tell me that? Any of it."

Aziraphale made a fussy little sound in his throat. "I tried, once or twice. You told me I was being silly." He looked aside and back. "That's an excuse - I could have tried harder. I thought you'd be angry, because... you should have been. Or you'd just tell me I was being foolish. And I knew if you did, I'd just say you were trying to tempt me, and then we'd have a spat about it. And you'd be right, again, because I'd be an absolute knob for saying that. Oh, do forgive me, Crowley. I was so stupid. I didn't know better, but I could have if I'd just been braver."

The simmering in Crowley’s stomach was gradually calming itself, because his friend was absolutely right. As they were, as things had been between them, completely open and honest conversation was next to impossible. They'd spent centuries perfecting a dance that allowed them to carefully avoid the hard questions while maintaining their bond. That would have to change. "Well, you're right: that was a pretty cocked-up thing to do and I _am_ a little angry." He was tapping his nails on his knee. "And I'm not sure what to do about that."

"I'm willing to work it out. If you want to punish me, if you want to have me on my knees, that is where I will be. I have never wanted to be penitent for anything except for this." Aziraphale was ready to do that, to sink down right there on the kitchen tile. "But please believe me. Crowley, if it weren't for you and your constant challenging of my assumptions and my obstinance, I may never have changed. I may have been stuck in the same headspace as my peers, and I'd never have done anything truly good in this world. I've learned, and I've changed, and I'm not that person anymore."

The last bit, Crowley did believe. He'd watched Aziraphale's evolution as a rational, critical being over their time together, and it had accelerated quite a bit in the last eleven years alone. He knew that the angel had changed and no longer saw them as unequal. That didn’t stop the wounded feelings in his heart from needing some form of restitution. "I know," he said softly, still tapping his fingers, speculating. Punishment, hm? The tapping slowed and then paused as he landed on an idea. "I want to bite you. Not in a friendly way - a proper bite with blood and bruising and venom. If you let me do that, I'll forgive you."

An odd thing to ask for, Aziraphale thought. He was pretty sure Crowley would never do anything that'd truly harm him, but he still had to ask, "What will the venom do to me?"

"Whatever I tell it to." Most snakes were stuck with one type of venom; Crowley, being the original Serpent, could bend the properties to his will. "In this case, it will burn. You'll overheat in seconds and feel like you're dying from the inside out."

The thought was frightening, but the angel was a soldier; he could be brave, even if there was a tremble to his voice. "If that's what you need, then that is what I'll endure." Aziraphale swallowed and stood up. "Would it be alright if we did this in the bedroom?" If the pain made him lash out or manifest his wings, the wide, open space around the bed would help keep him from breaking things - including himself.

"You read my mind." Rising, Crowley put their mugs in the sink, and then they both went into his bedroom. The demon was already shedding his silky top. "Robe off, if you please, and then lie faceup."

"Lay? Oh, if you think that's best." Aziraphale put the robe over the end of the bed and had to resist the impulse to try to hide his bare torso, though he really had little to be bashful about. Muscular and soft, with perfect skin, dusted between the pectorals with silky blonde hairs. He took a deep breath, and settled himself on the bed, right in the middle, pushing the pillows back so he was laying flat. Turning, he smiled, "No matter what I say when I'm suffering through this, remember that I love you, and I'm grateful."

The inside of Crowley's head was full of lusty groaning when he saw that perfect torso... oh, it was muscled and strong with just the right amount of jiggle and softness, and he wanted to run his hands all over it and worship it for hours. But that was for later. The skin was baby-smooth and completely unblemished, and he was going to change that. "I love you, too... so much." Leaving his bottoms on, the demon crawled next to his partner and then straddled his legs near the knees, so his head was level with that downy chest. Sliding his tongue out, he laved it over the left breast, above the heart. Then he snapped his head to the side and sank his sharp teeth into that milky flesh - a snake strike that immediately caused the skin to bruise and blood to seep out. He wanted to savor this sensation, this flavor, this scenario of an angel submitting to the piercing pain of his fangs.

There was just a gasp, a slight shiver, but Aziraphale held himself steady with a resolve he rarely brought to bear in his long self-indulgent life. He would quietly accept his punishment with the dignity and solemnity it deserved. So the angel lay still, his hands lax on the sheets, eyes closed, as Crowley dug into his flesh with sharp and tainted teeth. His skin broke, and the blood took a couple seconds to well around the demon's fangs. There was a hint of something there - a whisper of grace that might burn a demon's tongue - but Crowley had lived for over a decade with the slow sunburn of Aziraphale's holiness already.

Holding his mouth around the puncture wounds, the demon created a vacuum and sucked hard, digging the teeth in deeper and mottling the skin with dark blues and purples. The simmering in his belly was still there, but just barely. He felt the angel become very still, and knew then that his bite actually did hurt. The blood burned his tongue, but not unbearably - more like curry spice than anything else - and it rippled with power. He didn't drink it. He laid there for one minute, two minutes, three minutes, letting his anger and hurt pour into the muscle.... and then slowly withdrew his fangs and lifted his head. No burning. No venom. This was enough.

Aziraphale lay where he was. He didn't know that he hadn't been envenomated and was waiting for the pain, the burning, the sensation of dying. Breathing evenly after Crowley released him, he otherwise remained still and silent.

Leaning over, the demon pressed a bloodstained kiss to the angel's mouth. "Like I'd actually do that to you, ya tosser," he murmured with terrible endearment. For all his justified upset, Crowley couldn’t stand to make his angel truly suffer.

"Crowley? What?" The angel slowly opened his eyes, and then pushed himself to his elbows to look at the bite. "But you said you would..." He turned to the demon with wide, puppyish eyes. "Was it a test?"

Crowley sat back on his heels, arms crossed. "I know what I said. I was having a go at you. You've been a right bell-end to me these last few centuries, so that's your punishment.” He shook a finger at his companion. “Bad angel, very bad." His voice softened, tender. "Now stop kicking yourself for it." Inwardly, he was holding the breath he didn’t need - had he gone too far? No, surely not. It was the gentlest harsh punishment he could think of. He remained quiet, letting what just happened ruminate in his beloved's mind.

Aziraphale sat up further and put his hand to the bite. He was pensive for a moment - ten, fifteen seconds - and then asked, "Would you be upset if I kept this?"

The demon blinked, tilting his head. "Keep it? Erm, no, I guess not. But why?"

"Just a little mark, barely there. But I'd know it was there, and I'd know it was yours." Aziraphale kept his hand over the bleeding wound. "It's important. This is where we turn; this is really where we make the change." The angel's eyes grew bright, cheerful again. "I want to have a symbol I can touch to remind me what everything's been for, and that I'm not the angel I once was, even if I'm still responsible for his mistakes. I'm _this_ Aziraphale now, with this mark over my heart, reminding me every day that I am yours.”

Oh. Crowley hadn't anticipated that. _I am yours, and you are mine._ He was blushing and pretending that he wasn't by wiping his sticky mouth. But he was also thinking. "You can keep it," he finally said. "But only if you give me one, too. I know you don't have my teeth, but... surely a blessed knife would do? And it doesn't have to be today, but soon. So I can know I'm yours, and this unsettled feeling in my body can rest."

A nod, and when Aziraphale took his hand from his breast, there was a small, raised pink scar where the demon's teeth had been: a neat, unbroken oval, like a modern depiction of a halo. "Fitting." he mused. "It'll fade. And if I can be sure the knife won't hurt you beyond a little mark, then yes, of course I will. Do you want the same shape?"

The healed bite looked much better than the nasty, marbled thing he'd left behind - had that been the shape of his anger, the face of his pain? Crowley was suddenly glad he'd gotten it out. Now it was a soft, pink halo scar. "Whatever you want to give me."

"We can discuss that.” One of the angel’s fingers traced over the scar. “I like this - thank you for giving it to me. It has meaning, and always will. And because of that, I want to make sure whatever I give you will mean just as much to you." Aziraphale held his hand out to Crowley. "Please, my dearest. Tell me how I can continue to prove myself to you. Even if it's just for today, let me do for you. Let me dote on you."

"I almost didn't do it at all," the demon mumbled, accepting that hand. "I wasn't sure I could. But it does feel better now, and I'm glad you don't resent me for it." Aziraphale wanted to dote on him? There was silence. "You could... take a shower with me? And wash me?" Crowley's shower was spacious and modern, with plenty of room for two.

"I'd be delighted to, but ah, mm - didn't you just have a shower before breakfast?" Aziraphale asked, twisting his fingers around each other. "Would you need another one so soon?"

"This one will be better because it has a naked angel in it." Crowley grinned, then relented. "Guess it doesn't have to be right away. I just... I really need you close to me, angel, in whatever way I can have you."

"Well then, I have no objections. Or you could lay with me here for a while, kiss me, and let me touch you." The angel patted the bed next to him, "Maybe I could give you that foot rub I suggested earlier." He smiled coyly, "And if you're... open to the notion, there's something I could do with my mouth that's usually a lot of fun.

Crowley (and his body) was so very open. "I must be feeling extra greedy today, because all of that sounds amazing," he chuckled. "But for now... here, can you sit up?" Once the angel was sitting cross-legged, the demon scooted into his lap, wrapped his arms and legs around that soft torso, and rested his cheek on the shoulder. "Ahh... that's the stuff."

"Oh, yes, as much as you like." Aziraphale held Crowley, both hands around the slimmer body, and squeezed him firmly. "My lovely, lovely creature. My starling. I've been eager to share all the pleasures of the world with you, and I'd nearly forgotten something so simple."

In that position, Crowley felt safe, kept, and cherished. "It's easy to forget," he murmured. "Not really sure why." He shrugged and then snuggled in closer, legs drawing in.   
  
Gradually, the two of them reclined, so that the demon was stretched out along the angel’s chest and stomach.Crowley could see the halo scar on Aziraphale’s bosom, and he touched it lightly. There was still a lot they needed to work through, centuries of anxiety, of hurt, that couldn’t be cured in a single gesture - but seeing the angel ready ( _eager,_ even) to repent surely helped a lot. And he knew he hadn’t been perfect, either. He’d been manipulative, withdrawn, and self-destructive, and he had a long way to go before he could forgive himself. As he lay thinking, Crowley noticed that the arms around him had relaxed; the angel’s breathing had steadied and slowed, and he realized Aziraphale had dozed off during his pondering.   
  
Ah, well, he’d let the angel sleep; there was plenty of time now.


	19. Closer To The Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness. We've brought this dish to a simmer and now it's time to add the brandy and set it aflame!  
> Thanks to Joy_Shines for being our beta and editor.

It was strange for Aziraphale to awaken in a world that looked so much the same and yet felt so different. It wasn’t merely the crispness of the morning air, or the gently shining sun, or even the solid Earth beneath him that gave him this feeling; it went much deeper than that. Angels were capable of viewing the universe as a whole and as a collection of all its minute components. From mountains to molecules, he could see this subtle shift, and he knew this was not the same world of just a few days earlier. This world was newer, better, freer, crackling with vibrant potential, a gift bestowed upon humanity from the purity of a child’s love.

Each dawn had reminded Aziraphale of that change, and each time was both overwhelming and marvelous. But that morning, he found himself aware of a brand-new change: the being he loved more than any other was draped across his torso - not quite asleep, but merely basking in the warmth of his company and corporation. While it was peculiar to have Crowley so close to him after so many centuries of careful distance, the angel wouldn’t trade it for anything. This was what he’d wanted for so very long, and he felt himself flushing with happiness.

The serpent was aware of the world’s fanciful new shape as well, of course, but it mattered less to him. What mattered more was this - this closeness, this warmth, this softness. With Aziraphale at his side, the world had long since been a better place. Adam’s gift was merely a cherry on top. When he cracked his eyes open and noticed the angel was awake, Crowley made a soft, pleased sound and lifted his head. “Hey, you.”  
  
Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile. “Oh, hello. Goodness… was I out for long?”   
  
The demon shook his head. “Nah. Couple hours, tops. Figured you needed it.”   
  
“Suppose I must’ve.” Blinking a few times, the angel wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist and squeezed lightly. “Am I a comfortable seat, then?”

“Couldn’t imagine a better one,” Crowley quipped. Pressing his nose to the crook of Aziraphale's neck, Crowley inhaled slowly and deeply, and then hummed. "Mm... you smell good, angel."

"My barber suggested the scent,” the angel replied sleepily. “I’ve quite forgotten the name of it, but it's mostly vetiver and patchouli." Then he yawned lightly and gave a pleased little squirm, even with an armful of demon. "And what are you wearing today?" The angel nuzzled Crowley's temple and then kissed at the edge of his cheekbone.

"For once, just some Old Spice deodorant," Crowley chuckled, nuzzling into that rosy cheek. "But my usual is Azzaro: Wanted by Night - heavy on patchouli, cedarwood, and citrus." The happy energy in Crowley's core was practically vibrating by now.

"Hmm, I knew it. Sometimes I'd pass someone wearing the same cologne, and I’d have to stop and look." Aziraphale stroked a hand down Crowley's back. "But I also like how you smell without anything on.”

The demon’s whipcord back muscles relaxed slowly as that smooth hand petted him. "Didn't think you noticed things like that, angel. I think you might have a crush on me." His face was hidden, but a smile was in his voice.

There was a light laugh from the angel. "I suspect I might have had one for a while.” His arms tightened a bit, while his voice softened. “Oh, my dear. I've wanted to just hold you like this for the longest time."

Crowley had been about to say something witty in return, but the words melted on his tongue at Aziraphale’s tender speech. Flushing, he buried his face into the angel’s neck again, sliding his arms around those strong shoulders. “Yeah,” was all he could manage. 

The two of them laid in comfortable silence for a long moment, and then the demon found himself starting to smirk. “You know, I can’t help but think this affection is just another ploy to keep me out of trouble.”

“Oh, really? And I suppose you're just wrapped around me for some nefarious purpose, then? Are we tenderizing me for dinner?" Aziraphale ran a single fingertip ticklishly up the demon's ribs. "Do I need to thwart you?"

"Nothing gets by you, I see," Crowley sighed in defeat. "I only like you because you're a nice soft- _eep!_ " The serpent squeaked mid-sentence and jolted... and then cleared his throat, trying to pretend that never happened. "A nice, soft target."

"Really? Am I?" Aziraphale sat up quickly and repeated the gesture, this time with all four fingers, up and then down. 

"Angel, don't you d-" Crowley jolted again and yipped when his seat shifted, and he fell backwards, upper body twitching and squirming away from those wicked fingers. 

Aziraphale was hovering over him, laughing. "I suppose you did trick me today. But I deserved it. Now, what do you deserve? More snogging?"

Crowley attempted to sound cross, despite the vulnerable position. "Look here, you can't deter me with these dirty tactics. One day, I'll eat you right up."

"Hm, I think you've been more interested in what _I'm_ eating." Leaning in, Aziraphale kissed the serpent’s nose. "I don't know that I'm the one who needs to worry." Grinning, he peppered kisses and tickles along the demon’s neck, chest, and ribcage.

"Erk." Crowley knew then that resistance was futile. For a few minutes, the demon squealed and laughed and wriggled, trying and failing to shield himself against the barrage of ticklish affection. When was the last time he'd been allowed to lower his cool-guy barrier and just _enjoy_ something? However, he eventually had to tap out, panting and flushed. "I yield, I yield!"

"Oh, goodness me. Looks like you've been thwarted, dear." The angel began to soothingly stroke Crowley's thigh and flank, and then had a thought. "You know, with the way you've watched me, and the way you walk and tease, I'd always assumed that you'd want to take our relationship into the sort of intimacies that human bodies are made for. There's cuddling and kissing and rubbing, for example - all manner of things two people can do... and that includes sex. But I shouldn't just assume you want any or all of those things. I'd like to know what you want. What were you hoping for, Crowley, when this was still a lifetime away?"

The serpent was grateful that Aziraphale was stopping to consider his desires, and his brow furrowed in thought as he tried to catch his breath. "It's... hm. It changed a lot, if I'm being honest - my hopes, that is. I was pretty innocent when I first got here. Hell doesn't exactly give you a crash course in human behavior, heh. I knew that I felt... _attracted_ to you since Eden. And that I wanted to be around you, which was why I kept sniffing you out. Then, after what I saw at that dreadful emperor's party in Rome..." Crowley’s face twisted in disgust. "... well, I thought, if that was all that human desire had to offer, then I wasn't even slightly interested." The demon then softened and became very slightly flushed. "But then you invited me to eat with you, and then go with you into the baths, and I saw you in the hot water and... gods, angel, you were so pink and soft, and I wanted every inch of you in my mouth at once. That was when I learned I _could_ want things like that, and when I knew I wanted you." A small sigh. "I'm not a virgin, I think you're aware of that. But the sex I've had, with one exception, was cruel and degrading and nothing about it was pleasant. Even so, I hoped that, with you, it could be... different, somehow. If it ever did happen." One hand slid over his eyes as his blush deepened. "I want everything, angel. I want to do everything, and have everything done to me, until there's not a place on you that I haven't tasted."

"Ah, I see. Mmn, well, I'm afraid that's mutual." Truthfully, it'd been the source of much of Aziraphale’s anxiety. Angels weren't meant to engage in such carnal indulgences, and it was difficult to guess which would have been looked upon with more revulsion: dalliances with humans or with a demon. And while there weren't any particular rules against such activity between angels, Aziraphale had not yet found one who was both willing and had a human body to do it with. "You have successfully tempted me, and been a whisper on my tongue on many lonesome nights. I admit that it's been a while, and I might be shy - I haven't been touched in decades. And never all that often before that. But I've always enjoyed making love. I am meant to love, after all, so how could I not?"

The idea that his name had been whispered in the dark during Aziraphale's moments of self-indulgence made the demon bite the corner of his lip. He'd done the same, of course, when the loneliness and lust grew too powerful, but it never crossed his mind that this lifetime’s Aziraphale would ever say such a thing. "I thought you might enjoy it. I mean, really, you're such a hedonist that I couldn't picture you not enjoying all the delights of the flesh, including... that."

"You've always been more of an ascetic,” mused the angel, unbothered by the label - after all, it was the truth. “I was hopeful that one day I could tempt you. Oh, you know I've tried. I think I've improved on the skill, after all the practice you gave me." 

Despite himself, Crowley chuckled. "Mm, suppose I am.” An odd trait for a demon, to be sure. “It wasn't that I didn't notice the tempting, or appreciate them. I just... had questions, I suppose, that neither of us were in a position to answer. And I knew that if I gave in, that was it - I'd never stop. I'd never want to stop. That wasn’t a risk I could take." He paused, letting his fingers drift over Aziraphale’s hand. “But… well, things are different now.” 

“In retrospect, that was probably wise of you,” Aziraphale admitted. “Even if it was frustrating at the time.” He let his hand drift down one of the demon’s freckled arms. “If I knew the taste of your mouth, and how soft and lovely your skin is, I’d never stop seeking it.” 

Crowley felt himself blushing and then scowled slightly. "I'm not soft - you're soft. I'm just a bunch of edges and angles. If I suck my stomach in, you could play a xylophone tune on my ribs."

"Mmhm, surely. A xylophone wrapped in warm silk and cheek." The angel’s fingers teased along the hem of Crowley's pyjama bottoms, just briefly, and he chuckled. "And I would love to play you. I bet you have the loveliest singing voice.” His hand brushed over the demon’s hip, feeling the taut muscles. “Goodness, my dear, I didn’t realize you were so tense. Did you know I'm trained in three types of massage?"

"Nyrr." Crowley had some ideas as to how he could be coaxed to sing, but was distracted by this new tidbit of information. He propped himself up on his elbow. "I did not, though it really shouldn't surprise me. When did you learn that?"

"I started learning in the ninth century, in India - the Ayurvedic practices. I did mention I'd been to India." Aziraphale noted, running his palm over the demon's chest as he shifted position. "Well, they'd been doing it for ages already, and with the increasing number of wars going on in the world, I was starting to tire deeply of watching people die. I wanted to help the survivors, so I learned these methods to help people who'd been injured heal and regain muscle function. I could only do so many miracles before I got reprimanded, so I needed to be crafty." There was a distinct hint of pride in the angel’s voice.

A fond smile curved the demon's mouth. "You always were clever when it came to bending the rules. Always liked that about you. And the fact that you'd often do it to be kind to humans made me like you even more." One eyebrow raised. "All the same, I bet you're only telling me this so you can see me naked, you Lothario."

"Oh, no, you can leave these on." The angel tugged lightly at the fabric of Crowley's bottoms. "I just want to touch you. All you need to do is turn over and let me. And if you have some oil, all the better." Aziraphale smiled innocently. "Oh, but you don't have to. I just want to get my hands on you - you know what kind of greedy thing I am."

"I do know." Sitting up, the demon kissed that cherub cheek. "I love how greedy you are. If you're willing, then..." A bottle of grapeseed oil appeared in his hand. "... I'd like that very much. Can't recall if I've ever had a massage, so - new experience." He untangled his legs and then rolled onto his stomach, head pillowed on his arms.

"Never? Not even in the Roman baths? I had my first there, although it was lacking in technique. More of a sensual oiling than anything else." Aziraphale uncapped the bottle and smelled the oil. Just a faint warm, sweet-ish scent. "I'll start gently. Let me know if you want it firmer." The tone suggested that he was very pleased with this opportunity not only to touch, but also to give Crowley a pleasurable experience and to demonstrate a skill he was proud of. He settled himself into a good position, poured a little oil into his palm, and let it warm to skin temperature before lightly spreading it across the demon's angular back.

Crowley wrinkled his nose briefly. "I saw the option there, but nah. I didn't want strangers touching me like that. Could smell their lust a mile away. Knew they wouldn't hesitate to get handsy, and I was not in the mood to deal with that." At the prompt, he nodded, and then attempted to relax as the warm oil was spread over his skin. There wasn't a terrible amount of muscle on his body, but what was there was akin to a protective layer of sheet metal.

"Hmm. Yes, I can imagine - you've got such a lithe, elegant body. I'm sure you inspire plenty of sin just by wearing tight trousers." Aziraphale's strong, blunt fingers began to work, kneading the muscles in long, smooth strokes, soothing and easing them, encouraging them to relax and let him in, particularly those around the back of the ribcage and along the spine. "And your fancy codpieces, and the breeches that showed off your shapely legs. Ah, and your hair - I do miss when you had long hair. I liked watching you brush and plait it."

The demon snickered. "The tight pants help, yeah... nm..." After centuries of constant vigilance, the muscles in Crowley's back were reluctant to stand down. They pushed back valiantly against Aziraphale's touch, resisting, afraid... but finally, they relaxed and the angel's fingers could press in deeper. The remark about his hair, in particular, caught his ear. Normally, Crowley allowed his hair to grow and be shortened in the usual human manner, to allow a more natural shift in trends and appearance. But for Aziraphale, he could make an exception. One finger raised, and his short-cropped hair rapidly extended into glossy, crimson waves resting over his shoulder. "Merry Christmas."

"Oh, you _cheater._ I love it," Aziraphale purred. "When my hands aren't so oily, I'll have to braid it for you." And as a reward, both thumbs dug in and ran upward from Crowley's coccyx to his scapulae, hitting several endorphin-releasing pressure points on the way. "You are gorgeous - ah, but you were always. That mane is just something added on, a bow, a cherry. Do you like having it pulled?"

Pleased, Crowley preened in the light of his beloved's praise. Then a soft, keening sound ebbed from the serpent's mouth as those thumbs reached in and drew pleasure from the muscles, followed by a shuddering sigh. Wow, that was wonderful... "Hmm." That noise was more thoughtful. His recent memories of having his hair pulled were... undesirable, as the persons pulling it cared little about his pleasure. Older memories, however, memories from Before, trickled back to him, and he squirmed. Just a little. "Yeah. Quite a bit, really."

"Oh, excellent. I look forward to finding out how hard." Again, Aziraphale pushed, this time with the heels of his palms, though he was still being relatively gentle. "It's been a long time since I've worn my hair long. But - ah, unless it's all done up, I do tend to look like an untrimmed poodle." The angel laughed cheerfully, happier than he'd been in a very long time.

The unbidden mental image of a poofy angel afro made Crowley snort and his upper body shook with quiet, wheezing laughter. This also allowed his back muscles to soften further, becoming more pliant under the angel's skillful hands. "I like your hair how it is, but if you ever grew it out, I could help you care for it." Sighing deeply, he rolled his shoulders a few times and sank lower into the mattress.

"Oh, wouldn't that be lovely? I still remember the time I had a lady-in-waiting when I went to Moscow - to attend the treaty signing at Princess Catherine's court - and she did my hair for me every day. It was so intricate, all sorts of ribbons and feathers and pearls. But when she brushed it out and plaited it for me, it did feel so nice. I'll show you sometime." Scooting back a bit, Aziraphale placed both hands on Crowley's hips and leaned his weight in just enough to stretch the fascia and ligaments in the pelvis. "Maybe without the bows and pearls, unless you want those. How's that pressure for you, dear? Firmer? Lighter?"

Absently, Crowley thought of Aziraphale's feminine form from the other timeline, and how lovely she'd been in her courtly dress. At least this time, the infiltration went off without anyone going mad, and he felt some gratification in having a direct hand in that (albeit unknown to the angel). "I'd like to see that," he murmured wistfully. "I'd love to braid your hair for you, and oil it, and adorn it with daisies and poppies." The pelvic area was still fairly locked up, as that was where a good deal of Crowley's stress lived, and it resisted the stretching. "Nnff... a little firmer, please."

Giving more weight to his palms, Aziraphale pressed his thumbs slowly into a pair of pressure points, just behind the joints where each femur fit into the pelvis. "Poppies? Really? You'd like me in red? Ah, tell me when I'm pressing too hard. If this doesn't unlock, I might have to resort to more drastic measures." But he was enjoying the contact, the warm and supple skin under his hands, and his fingers slipped just beneath Crowley's waistband.

"Deeper red, yeah, like burgundy or merlot. Paired with lighter colorssssnnnm... hh... to, uh, to soften it. Would look great on you... like the sun." What was he even babbling about? The pressure on Crowley’s backside hurt a little, but it was the necessary pain that accompanied a stubborn body gradually submitting. "Dare I ask what the drastic measures are?"

"Ah, well, there are some shiatsu techniques that I've not practiced all that often, but I do think I have the basics down. They involve using elbows and knees, and a more ah, vigorous form of manipulation. I've heard it can be painful, but the results are apparently euphoric. Sadly, I'm tougher than my trainer's usual subjects, so I don't think I got the full effect." He moved his hands so that the heels of each palm were straddling Crowley's tailbone and gave another firm shove, all but grinding the poor demon's pelvis into the mattress. "Goodness, this tension. I'd be willing to bet this is from all that car-driving."

"And just being constantly stressed out for centuries, yeah,” the demon quipped, and then he yelped softly, shuddering as a little rush of pleasure spread along his lower back. His pelvis was downright confused at this point, as, prior to this, the only time it would be ground against the mattress like that was during unusually vigorous bouts of masturbation. Which this certainly wasn't. But oh gods, that ripple up his spine had felt so good, and he wanted to feel it again. "That... That was good, again please...!"

Aziraphale repeated the motion, firm enough that a lesser mattress would creak - but, of course, the miraculous collection of springs and pockets and foams that Crowley enjoyed didn't make a sound, didn't even shudder. "Just tell me when to stop. Hopefully you'll feel a good 'pop' when I do this," He gave a little shimmy to his wrists and did it a third time, a tad harder.

A series of hissed and gurgled sounds were elicited by the second push. It hurt, but the ripple returned all the same and Crowley could feel his hips loosening. Then- "Huah!" There wasn't just one pop, but _three_ that blended into each other, and the demon felt his lower vertebrae and muscles unwind. His entire body slumped down and he groaned softly in a mix of pain and relief, panting.

"Ahh, there you go. That was quite the firework!" The angel eased up on the pressure until he was only lightly stroking upward to Crowley's ribcage, waiting for his companion to recover. As the demon's breath evened, he made a pleased little 'hm' sound, "It's always a good idea to be loose and limber if you might be engaging in strenuous activities."

"Thanks, coach, I'll keep that in mind." Two fingers lifted in a lazy salute, and then the demon rolled onto his side slowly and rotated first his arm and shoulder, and then his leg. Another tiny _pop_ was heard in the hip when he did this. "Oof, another one. Must be getting old," he snickered.

"Ah, I think we both would be, then. Seems I started out that way, but I'm quite spry, believe me." As long as it didn't involve jogging. Aziraphale hated jogging. Or any kind of running, or climbing, or… okay, maybe ‘spry’ was generous. "How do you feel?" He moved to let Crowley roll over, sitting crossed-legged next to his companion.

"I believe you." Rolling onto his back, Crowley drew one knee flush with his torso, extending the leg, and then did the same with the other side. More soft popping noises. "A little tender, but... actually pretty good. I've always been bendy, but the stiffness in my hips is a lot better." He smiled, one leg still in the air. "Thanks for that."

"Well I _know_ you believe me. But I was hoping you'd ask me to prove it. Another time." A featherlight trail of fingertips over one lithe thigh, and a brattish smirk. "But I'm sure I'm not nearly as flexible as you are." The angel pouted and patted the demon's knee. "... Huh, well, drat. I'm trying to think of something I need to do today - to motivate myself to do more than laze in bed - but I can't think of a thing. Isn't that funny?”

"Funny for you, that's for sure. I'm lazy as hell." Crowley grinned and crossed that lifted leg over his knee, nudging at the angel's shoulder with his toes. "And since you find yourself lacking in reasons to leave this very comfortable bed, why don't you go ahead and demonstrate that spryness of yours?"

"And how would you like me to do that?" Aziraphale stretched out on his side to mirror Crowley. "I have some ideas of my own, but I do enjoy indulging you."

“I was enjoying that kiss earlier," the serpent mumbled, looking down and away. "We could keep doing that. I believe you mentioned pulling my hair as well." Yellow eyes peeked up, almost shyly. "What ideas did you have?"

"I was going to do some yoga poses,” the angel lied, smile broadening. "Touch my toes, link my hands behind my back - the usual things." 

"You are absolutely full of shite," the serpent said dryly, narrowing his eyes slightly but mouth quirking into a grin.

With an easy movement, Aziraphale slid himself closer. "Well… I won’t comment on that. As for your ideas, I'd like to keep doing that as well." And he reached to take a handful of Crowley's new locks. "Both, in fact."

Oh, suddenly Aziraphale was right there, their bodies lightly touching, a strong grip in his hair, and Crowley's heart fluttered. "Oh, I hope I'm not still dreaming," he whispered desperately, sliding a leg over his friend's hip.

"If you are, don't wake up. I'll be quite cross if you ruin this for the both of us." Aziraphale snared his fingers more fully into Crowley's lustrous mane and slid his other hand against the demon's jaw before kissing him, with notably more passion and focus than he had in the kitchen. He kissed with the full awareness that he belonged to someone in a way that was real and demonstrable and could be acted upon. He'd never felt that before in his very long life, and it was an entirely new kind of high.

If Crowley _was_ still dreaming, he would choke whoever dared to wake him. He had felt that kind of passionate certainty Before, and after wilfully depriving himself of it, he'd nearly convinced himself that he'd never feel it again. But there it was, burning in his lower belly, dilating his eyes, making him pull Aziraphale closer and groan into that greedy mouth. Too long, it had been too long, and he ground against the angel without reservation.

Aziraphale made a small sound of - not surprise, but awareness, acknowledgment, and he eased Crowley back, pulling testingly at the demon's hair as he did so. Oh, that was nice, Crowley smelled good and he tasted like... well, like a mouth after coffee. But that was fine. The right spice could make anything delicious.

It had been a minute since Crowley had worn his hair this long, and he'd forgotten how sensitive his scalp was. The back of his head tingled in pleasure, and he hissed softly. "You can do it harder," he murmured, biting that pink lower lip and sucking gently. "If you want."

If he took that suggestion, it was only so the angel could draw Crowley's head further back to kiss that lovely, exposed throat - and perhaps to nip and suck small pink circles into, as well. Between touches of his lips, Aziraphale said, "I told you there were things I liked to do with my mouth. You haven't even seen half of that list."

Crowley had his own list of oral tricks, but he kept that to himself and let Aziraphale have his moment. Instead, he luxuriated in the heat and bite of his angel's mouth, happily allowing his throat to be bared, tasted, and marked. "If it's half as good as what I've seen so far, then I might not survive the lot of it."

"Don't you dare. I won't have you going off without me." Aziraphale loosened his grip on Crowley's hair, and claimed his lips again, sliding one of his legs between the demon's, deliberately encouraging him - with that and with a tight grip around the waist. Such a greedy angel, gathering everything he could, taking all he was offered with an outpouring heart, all that joy rolling back in waves.

When that leg slid between his thighs, it became abundantly clear that not only had Crowley manifested an Adam's Effort, but that it was earnestly responding to the angel's treatment. The friction of the silk bottoms and the warmth of that thigh felt so lovely that he rutted against it like a dog. If desired, he could orgasm from this alone, but he wasn't ready for that yet. He wanted more.

Aziraphale purred, and his hand slid over Crowley's hip, tapping lightly along his silky pyjama bottoms. The angel made an inquisitive sound and pulled back enough to ask, "May I touch?" He glanced downward between their bodies.

"Huh?" The demon's eyes were unfocused when he opened them, before he blinked a few times and nodded. "Oh, uh, yeah." A trifle bashfully, he added, "I might go off rather quickly if you do. I-I mean, I can do that multiple times, but it's still kind of embarrassing."

Dipping his hand into Crowley's waistband, Aziraphale cupped and stroked between his companion's legs. "Be as fast as you like, don't worry. I won't mind if you climax in my hand," He sought Crowley's ear to nip at the lobe, and whisper, "I'll just keep giving you more, darling."

The grasp of that strong, smooth hand was also something that Crowley was nearly certain that he'd never experience in this timeline, and yet here it was, and his body welcomed it. Hands and thighs began to shake as his hips bucked into that fist. The hot whisper tickling his ear was the clincher. It was only a few seconds later that the demon wailed in pleasure, making a complete mess of both his pajamas and the angel's fingers.

"Mmnh…” The angel sighed once Crowley had stopped shuddering, “That was beautiful. For the record, I think you've waited long enough." Continuing to rub, although slowly and gently, using Crowley's own seed to slick his erection, coaxing him to remain hard. "Let's get you to the next one, hm? What would you like from me?" Aziraphale was winding his hips slowly, but he didn't seem to have manifested anything yet. Still, the potential already thrummed at the base of his spine.

Panting, brow shiny with sweat, Crowley couldn't think of a damn thing beyond the basic order for his cock to remain hard. Ah, and one more thing: how disgusting sticky silk pants felt. "I'd like these off now," he managed to say, plucking at the pajamas, and saying that seemed to kick his brain back in gear. "And... I'd like you naked, too."

"I hope you don't mind me being frivolous." After relocating their clothes to the laundry hamper with a small miracle, the angel pursed his lips and squirmed, rubbing his leg against both of Crowley's. "A little chilly, don't you think?"

"Is it?" For once, the serpent was the one burning up, but he was quick to cater to his chilled angel and rubbed his hand briskly along Aziraphale's arm. "I can turn up the heat, or... we could get under the sheets?" Crowley's bed was lined with the best Egyptian cotton sheets that money could buy, as well as an electric blanket.

"Oh, no, I was thinking you were so warm, I'd just cuddle the heat out of you." Chuckling, Aziraphale let Crowley relax for a moment, tracking his wet fingers over the other being's trim belly. "One way or another. Hmm. Do you prefer this set of organs, or the inside set?"

"Oh." The demon smiled in his endearing, lopsided way, letting his fingers trail down his partner's waist and hip. "Mm... both sets have their perks, so I couldn't possibly say I prefer one over the other. Do you have a personal preference, angel?" This conversation felt vaguely familiar.

"Mmn, you know I do tend toward the 'Adam's' model, if I bother at all. Sometimes the cut of my slacks demands it. Not that the other one lacks its charms, but there's something oddly satisfying about a nice heft in the front." The angel chuckled then. "It's like having a cheeky little secret." Aziraphale stopped stroking Crowley for a moment to inspect his sticky fingers and then taste them with a kittenish dab of his tongue.

"Makes sense." The demon's heart skipped a beat as he watched his companion taste his seed, and he swallowed. Well. He definitely wasn't going soft anytime soon now. "I'd like to thoroughly sample both of your sets, I admit. But really, if it's on you, then I love it." A long tongue slipped out and gave the angel’s middle and ring fingers a lazy lick, before drawing them into his mouth.

After taking a moment to watch Crowley enjoy his dirty fingers, the angel hummed and threaded his other hand through his partner's hair, "Well I don't see why we can't try both. One and then the other, hm? I think a clearly stated proposal would be best, which can be adjusted depending on your proclivities and preferences, so that we don't have to deal with troublesome surprises.” Aziraphale took a breath and then pushed on: “Simply put, my desire at this moment is to pleasure you with my mouth, then to penetrate you from behind, and then to ride you while you lay on your back. I think that'll be a fair demonstration of my stamina. What do you think?"

The careful approach to their bedroom activities was a little surprising, but Crowley had to remind himself that a) Aziraphale did say he was rather shy about this and b) this was not Before, and the angel wasn't under the spell of a pagan god. If planning it all out beforehand put Aziraphale at ease, Crowley was content. "I think it sounds like a bloody good time. Though I'd like to tweak the first part, since I very much want to taste you as well. Maybe we could do it at the same time?"

In all honesty, Aziraphale really was trying his best to be suave, and not sound like a lawyer while negotiating something that he'd always dreamed would be passionate and spontaneous and not require signatures in tripli- okay perhaps that would be overdoing it. "Oh, I've seen people do that. On television... ah, I was curious." He reddened around the ears. "It's not as if I watch a lot of that sort of thing, but I had a responsibility to be thorough in my study - oh, bugger.” He shook his head, as if to shake the excuses from it, and then smiled. "That is to say, I'd love to give that a try."

The knowledge that his prim angel had been performing "research" on these topics made Crowley's grin stretch wider and wider as he watched Aziraphale grow more flustered. His nails skimmed over his partner's outer thigh, moving gradually inward. "I'd love to 'study' with you sometime, if you don't mind me doing commentary."

The angel laughed softly and squirmed at the ticklish touch. “You'd probably distract me by making jokes." 

"Obviously," was the serpent’s dry response. What else was the point of doing commentary on shoddy human pornography, especially with an audience? 

"Oh, you sly thing. Ahh, haha. I suppose I should commit. Just let me do that-" And with a pause of concentration and a shiver, Aziraphale's body shifted just a little - well, not so little. But the organ he'd summoned was exactly as Crowley remembered - and already growing hard. "Oh, goodness!" The angel squeaked, and put his hands over his face. "It's very eager."

Then Crowley blinked in surprise when Aziraphale was actually bashful about his own... situation. "It's very honest," he purred, sliding his hand downward. "Don't mind me, just gonna reacquaint myself." 

Putting his hands down, red-faced and smiling shyly, "I didn't expect the little fellow to come roaring out of the gate like that! It's been some time - since before the whole situation with the boy, you know. All that, well, it was stressful - oh!” Aziraphale whimpered and shivered as the pads of Crowley’s fingers slid along the underside and circled around the angel’s glans, reacquainting himself with it... 

Ahh, it was as girthy and handsome as he remembered, and the demon could feel himself salivate. "Oh, I really, _really_ want my mouth around this." His voice had gotten raspy as he licked his lower lip. "Can I?"

“Yes, please." Aziraphale's voice had melted into a lower octave when Crowley started playing with his prick, as if he'd only just remembered what that felt like.

Forgetting entirely about the mutual oral agreement they'd just made, the serpent hastily shimmied down between his angel's thighs. The musk alone made his entire lower body throb, and he rubbed his nose and cheek over the thatch of snowy curls and inhaled deeply. "Fuuuckin’ hell, you smell so good," he growled. He repeated that a lot, he knew, but it was the absolute truth. Tongue extending, he coated the shaft with saliva, humming happily as he went.

Crowley's sensory focus wasn't surprising, and Aziraphale's eyes fluttered as he was deliriously worshiped. The angel did smell good - his body had been crafted to do so, to give off a scent to give humans warm and fuzzy positive feelings toward him. But he couldn't have guessed the effect that might have on the demon. And for a little while he also forgot about Crowley's suggestion, but the pleasurable sensations soon made him want to reciprocate, and he recalled that revision quite clearly. "Crowley, love, let me have you, too."

The calling of his name drew Crowley from his trance, though his eyelids were still heavy; when he looked up, that Effort was more than halfway down his throat. "Mm...? Mm." Right, they were going to do it together. He drew his head back slowly, creating a vacuum with his mouth, before releasing with a soft 'pop'. "One of us laying on top of the other is the most common setup, but sideways could work too. I'm open to suggestions." His hand was still stroking, rubbing the tip along his cheek.

"You can lay on me, if you like. I know you're quite capable of holding my weight, but I think it'd be easier anyway. I'll follow your lead, though - I do think you're the more experienced of us in actual practical skill." Sitting up a little further, Aziraphale offered his hand, looking far more innocent than someone with a spit-wet jutting erection had any right to.

Just based on height, it would be easier if Crowley was on top. He took the offered hand and sat up, wiping his mouth on his wrist. "I'll lay on you, then. If you can handle a sword or carry stacked book boxes like it's nothin', you can definitely handle my featherweight arse." His tone and expression suggested that he found those effortless feats of strength very attractive. "And of course, I won't even mention how you punched a hole in Eden's wall and barely broke a sweat."

"Well I... might have bruised my knuckles. A little." The angel conceded, and then lay back, letting his thighs fall open, legs bent and crossed at the ankles. "Bring me a fig then, and feed it to me sweetly." He teased, making a beckoning gesture.

"However you did it, it was mightily fetching." Then all his thoughts screeched to a halt when Aziraphale, his decadent hedonist beloved, laid back and displayed himself like a feast, and he made a low, strained sort of noise. "... as you wish, m'lord." With a little shuffling and readjusting, Crowley arranged himself so he was straddling the angel's face and stretched over his stomach.

Crowley might have heard a similar little noise come from the blond as Aziraphale was blessed with the perky rear he'd been surreptitiously ogling since the invention of stretch denim, and he might have whispered a quick 'thank you' to Someone as he wrapped all his fingers around those buns and squeezed. "Oh, my..." Angelic nature notwithstanding, a shudder of visceral delight rippled right down to his curled toes, making his dick twitch on the way.

Having his ass thoroughly groped and appreciated made Crowley grin and bite his lip like an idiot. This was a decidedly lewd position, and he may have thanked his lucky stars that he had the chance to experience it with Aziraphale (the only face he truly wanted to sit on). "Like that part of me, do you?" Settling his forearms across the angel's padded thighs, the demon got back to his sampling.

"Oh, I do. I've been watching you swing it like you were trying to hypnotize me - and it did. The first thing I thought of when I considered attempting this sort of thing - sex - was this arse. It's perfect, like a peach... Oh, I want to eat it. May I?" He knew that sort of thing was considered base and depraved even by a lot of humans, but he was sure Crowley would be clean and delightful for him, and he wanted a taste. (Incidentally, this was also on his list of fun things he could do with his mouth.)

Suddenly, Crowley was glad that he was facing away from his partner, because his face had lit up like a stoplight. Given that he could make his digestive tract spotless and his nethers perfectly groomed with a thought (which he did daily), it was absolutely not the hygiene concerns that made his brain stutter or his cock jump. It was simply that an angel was asking to eat his arse. He slid his mouth off Aziraphale just long enough to hiss a hot "oh, please do" before getting back to it.

A shiver and whimper, "You're very good at that, Crowley." Aziraphale sighed, toes and calf muscles flexing, fighting himself not to writhe or jerk his hips. But focusing on a task would help with that, so he dove in hungrily, tugging Crowley toward his hot, velvety, and clever tongue. He ate like he'd been starving - greedy, sloppy, and thorough. The angel wasted no time delving as far up the demon as he could get - occasionally giving a muffled but happy moan.

A noise that sounded vaguely like "thank you" came from the demon's throat, as his mouth was quite full. Then he blinked and shuddered all over, pulling back to cry out softly. Rimming had been a few-and-far-between experience for him, and most of it had been mediocre at best. Given how much of a dainty, fussy diner the angel could be, even when it was clear that he was deeply enjoying his meal, the amount of sheer gusto devoted to this technique was just- just- "Angel, that is _obscene_ ," he groaned.

Not that Aziraphale could say anything just then, but he did make a _hmf!_ sound and spread Crowley's cheeks wider. After a few more wet slurps, he pressed his thumb against the well-licked pucker and began rubbing in circles while he shifted his attention to the soft, fuzzy patch behind his partner's balls, nuzzling and nibbling delicately, as if commenting 'how's that, then?' And giving his hips a quick waggle in satisfaction.

The teasing with the thumb actually gave Crowley a second to collect his scattered wits, as the licking had been rather.... intense. "Ha... phew, should've guessed you'd be great with your tongue," he panted, patting one thigh approvingly. "Mm, but that's nice, too." Humming, the serpent relaxed his jaw and slid his head down until his lover was fully sheathed in the hot tunnel of his throat, nose resting on the fluffy balls.

With a soft gasping cry, it was now Aziraphale's turn to be overwhelmed! "Oh! Crowley!" He pawed at the base of his lover's spine, scraping his trimmed nails over the skin and tossing his head back, that was rather something! _Get it together, now. He's waiting on you._ The angel exhaled, took a firm grip on Crowley's hips to pull him backwards just a couple inches so he could reach the sticky, cum-smeared prick that had been rubbing against his chest, and began licking at the salty-bitter stuff like it was cake icing. As eager as he was, Aziraphale really should have known he'd be easily outmatched when it came to anything tongue-related - but that didn't stop him from trying.

The nails dragging over his back made him jolt and arch into them, faint red stripes rising on the skin. "Nmmh!" The muffled cry sent brief vibrations through the serpent's throat and down his tongue, and then it happened a second time when the angel tended to his cock. _Don't bite down, do NOT bite down,_ his mind chanted. Saliva poured thickly down the shaft and testicles now, as did celestial precum (which Crowley eagerly lapped up).

"Ah, ah bl- buh- gh- _fuck!_ Crowley!" And the demon had the nerve to say _he_ was being obscene! Aziraphale held his companion's hips steady and applied his sloppy, gluttonous style to the head of Crowley's cock, guiding it to the back of his throat - of course, because he didn't want one, he had no gag reflex, and used those narrow hip bones like handles to pull his partner in as deep as he wanted. In fact, that combination of strength and control meant he could fuck his own throat with Crowley's body, tilting his chin up to open and relax his esophagus, and making wet, sucking, indecent sounds with every pump.

'Aziraphale swearing' was a kink Crowley'd forgotten he had until right that second, and it raised goosebumps on his arms and thighs. _Come on, focus, it's a two-way st-_ "Ghh!" His eyes widened when his cock was enveloped in hot, velvety flesh, and his control wavered. When his partner began forcibly moving his hips, it deserted him entirely. Whimpering, he pulled his head back, just barely keeping both hands stroking in place of his mouth. "Fuck... almost- angel-!" Climax rushed over him and out of him, causing him to moan wantonly, and he found himself unable to stop moving until Aziraphale would let him - which of course caused him to moan louder. After a few minutes of that cycle, he gasped, "Enough, enough, oh gods, angel, enough...!"

Letting Crowley rest on his belly, Aziraphale hummed and licked his lips, made shiny and pink from friction. "My love, you are full of surprises. You're absolutely delicious! If I'd only known... Well, I always thought you looked a treat." Naturally, Crowley didn't have a clue what he tasted like then, as the flavor tended to fluctuate based on his diet and mindset. Currently, it was pleasingly bittersweet, like a high-cacao dark chocolate. The angel exhaled and relaxed, petting his companion's thighs and breathing deeply while murmuring fond praise, content with that for the moment.

Crowley laid twitching on the angel's very comfortable torso, unable to think clearly and making soft, nonsensical noises for several minutes. Ahh... if he wasn't careful, he'd fall asleep. Shifting, inhaling, he sluggishly lifted his head, saw Aziraphale’s erection bobbing in front of him, and slid it right back into his mouth. "Mh..."

"Ah! Oh, darling, you're _so_ good," With a sigh, the angel let himself enjoy the attention, kneading the backs of Crowley's thighs, rolling his thumbs into the tender muscles. In very little time, Aziraphale's breath began to grow shallower and quicker as he was pleasured, "Yes, yes... just like that." He could see how easily Crowley would have been able to tempt humans to sin with that tongue - at the moment he felt as if he'd agree to anything to keep that wicked mouth upon him.

Crowley was drooling again, dribbling saliva down that gorgeous celestial cock, his head bobbing along the shaft and taking it all the way down each time. The flat of his tongue massaged as he went, and one hand lifted to cup Aziraphale’s soft balls and roll his thumb over them in a slow figure-eight movement. The angel tasted so good, salty and musky and faintly floral. It had been a lifetime since Crowley had brought his beloved to orgasm, and he was going to fix that straightaway. His free hand reached back, touching the fingers holding his thighs, wanting more contact. A ghost of a thought passed between them, a whisper of love.

Aziraphale took the offered hand and held it, and wrapped his other arm around Crowley's waist. 

Drawing his thighs up and curling his toes, the angel panted and made husky 'ah!' sounds of growing urgency - crying out Crowley's name with a moaned, drawn out 'oh', he tipped over the edge of his climax. Shuddering and whimpering with his downy balls pulled up tight to the base of his spasming cock, he jerked helplessly against his lover's tongue until he had nothing left to give. That floral undertaste was strong under the human salt and musk, almost rose-like, and the scent of those blossoms came up from his fresh sweat... which was certainly something new.

Nearly purring, Crowley swallowed all he was given with great relish, licking up any escaping droplets. The scent of white roses was thick in his nostrils, making him feel drunk and hazy. Only when Aziraphale was finished did he detach, scooting forward to sit just above the pelvis and stretch his arms above his head. "Nmmm..." Whew, he'd forgotten that long hair trapped heat quickly. Taking the back portion, he lifted it to fan his sweaty nape, only to feel something small and soft fall over his fingers. Looking around, Crowley noticed that they were now surrounded by loose white petals strewn across the bed, one or two having gotten in his hair. 

For a while Aziraphale lay still, eyes closed, softly breathing, awash in an intense afterglow. He beamed love and happiness, relaxing with a smug, satisfied smile. Eventually he opened his eyes, picked up a petal and said, wryly, "I wanted to do something special for you, but I think I may have gone overboard."

Once he'd cooled off, Crowley snuggled up to Aziraphale's side, arm draped over the chest, enjoying the closeness and listening to the gentle heartbeat. A smirk tugged at his mouth at the quip. "You just about sucked my soul out through my cock, angel," he snickered. "That was plenty special."

"Don't think I'm done with you, demon," came the reply. "There were two other things on the agenda. And I will make good on them... soon." Aziraphale smiled, turning a bit to get both of his arms around Crowley. "It is nice to know we can do that without exploding - at least, not literally."

"Threaten me with a good time, why don't ya." The demon sighed happily, nuzzling into the pale chest fuzz, and then cackled softly. "Man, but what a way to go. Just vanish in a cloud of rainbow glitter and baby powder."

"Which are you, then? The glitter or the baby powder?" Aziraphale teased, "I thought you'd explode into, oh, snakes or bats or ... licorice jelly babies. Something unpleasant and evil." Toying with a lock of red hair, and then tugging at it playfully. "Or is your soul a little less black these days? Oh don't mind me, I don't mean that. I'm very happy and I adore you completely."

"Excuse you, I'm the glitter _and_ the baby powder, because I'm fabulous," Crowley replied with mock indignation, but he then smiled at the tugging and felt very loved. However, he couldn't resist adding, "You? I figured you'd explode into book pages and Indian ink. Just a big piece of splatter art."

"Oh please! And then the glitter would get stuck in me, and it'd be grotesquely tacky. We'd wind up being hung in one of those horrible modern art galleries." The angel laughed. "But I'd be with you, so it wouldn't be so bad." Oh, he knew he was being as sappy as a syrup shack, but that was fine - he had always been soft.

"It would be an absolute mess that you can't help but appreciate, and if that isn't us, then I don't know what is." Crowley laughed as well, and then kissed that cushy chest and along the neck. "Also, it's me, hopelessly stuck on you, and that is my truth." Then he gagged slightly. "Gah, I just gave myself a cavity."

Aziraphale giggled and then kissed Crowley. "I'm no better. All this time, you were a bright spark that I looked forward to seeing - I made excuses to see you whenever I could. Your defiance, your independence, even your rivalry: they were all addictive. You were always so unpredictable and exciting, and you still surprise and thrill me utterly. I look forward to discovering new things with you."

The demon basked in his lover's praise, humming into the kiss, fingernails tracing the curves of that familiar face. "I look forward to that, too." Then, a touch of worry flickered across his face. "And I hope you... well, you never grow bored of me."

The angel couldn't help but laugh. "Oh, oh my. Love, I've known you how long? If I were to ever get bored of you, it would have happened by now. And I could say the same to you - but there are things you don't know about me yet, so I suppose we've got some ground to cover." Aziraphale shook himself, and the rose petals evaporated, their scent fading away with them - he was honestly getting tired of them. "And time to do so."

"True." The demon’s angular features and body language relaxed, his mind soothed by the reassurances. Crowley had known Aziraphale since the beginning and never once tired of him. "So... how about I order us something to eat, and we see about that shower while we wait?"

"Well, now that we need one, that sounds exceptional. How would you feel about some Punjabi cuisine?" Aziraphale looked around for where he'd tossed the robe - ah, there, at the foot of the mattress. He kissed Crowley's neck a few more times before letting the demon get up and out of bed - he might yet make the demon reconsider which of them was the clingy one (Crowley, on his end, didn’t mind in the slightest).

Not one to be picky about food, Crowley replied, “Sounds terrific, angel.” He sauntered toward the bath with an extra sway to his step - giving the angel a simply delectable view of his perfect peach of an arse on his way, the ideal lure to get Aziraphale to follow him.

The shower took quite a bit longer than usual, once Aziraphale had Crowley up against the slick tile wall - this was followed a meal in, delivered by the Indian restaurant down the block. They then fulfilled the rest of Aziraphale’s promised ‘good time’ (which put them in need of another shower). Afterward, it was agreed that a nap would be nice, even if Aziraphale preferred to read quietly in bed (as he had already slept more that week than he had in centuries). As it turned out, reading was plenty restful, and quite pleasant with a drowsy demon laying sprawled across one’s chest.


	20. Only Us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We are finally ready to close this chapter, to see what the next one holds, and to - perhaps - put a bookmark in and spend a little time relaxing in between. Thank you to Joy_Shines for being our beta and editor, your help has been indispensable!- Gearsmoke
> 
> I can't believe Part 1 is finally completed! Thanks to our beta, Joy, for taking this journey with us! And of course, thank YOU, dear readers, for taking a chance on our bat-shit crazy fanfic and following it to the end! We hope you enjoyed the ride! - Blue
> 
> We love you all!

For nearly another month, most of Aziraphale’s time was spent together with Crowley in the latter’s flat - resting, talking, and preparing themselves for the next phase of their lives. They had a new, unguided future stretching out ahead of them, and a lot of decisions to make. On top of that, Aziraphale hadn’t been ready to return to his old way of life, and he wasn’t sure he ever would be. Now that he had a dear guest staying with him, Crowley had arranged for his place to be a little more cozy, ordering a new, plush black couch and a matching loveseat, a better selection of fine teas and snacks, and some throw pillows and chic faux-mink blankets. He’d also taken the liberty of hiring a contractor to expand his shower to a size fit for two - including double rainfall showerheads. When he wasn't redecorating, dallying on his phone, or watching television with Aziraphale (while extolling the brilliance of _The Golden Girls_ ), they were in his bed, going down the list of activities the angel had compiled from his glimpses of Crowley’s memories. Naturally, intercourse was among the first items to get crossed off - in all four typical human configurations, and then a couple others, as well. Crowley was delighted when his angel took to these activities like a fish to water (both in talent and enthusiasm), and it wasn’t uncommon for his bedroom to look like a variety of natural disasters had run through it by the time their combined staminas ran out. Frankly, the demon couldn’t summon a single damn to give about that. Most physical property was cheap and easily replaced; the experience of nearly fainting from orgasm (twice) was not. 

The following months spent together were otherwise peaceful, offering a sense of rest and renewal that almost made Aziraphale wonder if Crowley had stopped time again. However, the occasional thumping from one of the other units, or a car horn going off on the street below, or the rowdy hollers of bar-hopping youngsters, reminded them both that time was very much ticking along out there. The wheel of the world was continuing to turn, with or without them, and both angel and demon were immeasurably glad of it.

Eventually, however, as winter approached, the pair decided it was finally time to revisit Aziraphale's bookshop. The angel had been putting off facing the spectre of his old life long enough, but there were various other reasons to return. Not only to make sure that it was all still in order (and that Heaven hadn't been snooping around looking for him), but also because he finally felt ready to reclaim his place in the outside world. Crowley, on his end, had to face the shape of his most recent trauma: the fire, accompanied by a terrifying sense of pain and loss. He knew that he had to confront that fear if he was ever to feel at ease in the shop again.  
  
As they approached the shop, Crowley found himself looking up at those familiar, hand-painted letters, the muted colors, the false pillars, the double doors that were never locked to him, even after-hours. For just a moment, he saw the entire building engulfed in red flame, and a wave of panic descended on him so severely that he nearly fainted in the driver seat. Aziraphale went into the shop alone that day. The second visit went a bit more smoothly. Crowley was still uneasy, but his angel was there, right beside him, holding his hand and speaking in soft tones to calm him and welcome him inside. 

It was easier after that, as the following visits to the bookshop were brief; they’d go in, do a quick look-around, perhaps pick up the mail, and then hastily leave to get a bite or even catch a show - something other than staying in that dusty, cluttered place. But, however strange it had become for both of them, that shop was still Aziraphale's home… and even though Crowley had done his best to make his own flat comfortable for the angel, there was a lot of neglected work that needed doing: inventory, reshelving, paperwork, and (eventually) re-opening. And, truthfully, the demon did miss the environment, the nest-like feel of it and the fond memories of alcohol-infused banter. So, in that way, they helped each other feel more at home in the shop again, and they even took to enjoying an evening drink in the back study, like old times. (Although in those ‘old times’, they hadn’t vigorously fornicated on the angel’s small leather couch.)  
  
The sight of his demon companion making himself comfortable in that intimate space filled the angel’s entire being with warmth; they were very nearly back on an even keel, rediscovering a familiar rhythm that was as amicable and grounding as a long-forgotten favorite song. Gradually, once all the mildew and dust was cleared away and the homey, safe feeling had returned, Aziraphale was ready to turn on the lights and flip over the sign in the door, proclaiming to Soho that A.Z. Fell, Bookseller (est 1800), was once more open for business.  
  
And it wasn’t only the passers-by on the sidewalk that took notice of this.

On the fourth day following the reopening, Aziraphale was calmly reviewing his latest edition Huxford's price guide, while Crowley lounged about the study, fiddling with his 'mobile device' and wearing ridiculously small earbuds to listen to some (no-doubt _appalling_ ) music. There had been quite a number of customers on that fourth day, and a few of them had actually made successful purchases. Nothing the proprietor considered valuable or perilous, of course - but he could part with some late editions and slightly rucked-up reprints; one buyer came looking for common and distressed old volumes for use as stage decor, and Aziraphale was more than happy to supply him with a box of battered ‘junk’ he hadn’t had the heart to throw away. The angel found he could part with things far more easily in this new world, in this new shop - to make space for something new. Or, perhaps... simply to make space.

The day was drawing towards evening; the shop had been empty for nearly an hour, and Aziraphale was about to get up and close, when the bell over the door jingled. He looked up from his guide and said quietly, "Oh." There was a woman standing by the door - petite, with soft brown hair and skin, ocean-blue eyes, and wearing a simple peasant-style dress in milk and cocoa hued raw silk. 

Crowley, sprawled across that familiar old loveseat with its comfy paisley quilt, was wiggling his foot in time to _The Greatest Showman_ 's soundtrack and playing Candy Crush when he heard the bell over the door tinkle softly and felt a distantly familiar aura spread from the entrance. And though he couldn't see the visitor clearly from the other end of the shop, the demon knew instinctively _what_ she was. Moreover, he had the impression he knew who she was, as well. Frowning, thinking perhaps he was misreading the aura, the demon pulled the headphones from his ears and rolled off the loveseat, striding across the back room to peek around one of the loaded bookshelves. 

_Oh_. He very nearly blurted out her name, but didn't bother to hide his surprise. As his memories cleared, Crowley felt something curl in his stomach that he couldn't quite identify. Why was she... no, he knew why she was here. But how? Hadn't that all been erased by Camazotz?

On his end, Aziraphale was already on his feet, hurrying excitedly toward their visitor. "Oh! Rachmiel! My goodness, it's been ages!" He sounded delighted to see her, and she seemed equally pleased to be seen, standing on the tips of her toes to give him a brief, friendly hug. The peeking demon frowned slightly; maybe she was just here for a friendly visit? Crowley did remember her saying that she was close to Aziraphale when they worked together. 

"Aziraphale!" Rachmiel said, "I was told I'd find you here, but there was nobody inside the first two times I checked. I was nearly ready to give up, but here you are!"

"Here _you_ are! Well, come on in, have a seat, I'll put on some tea - er, do you drink tea?" He paused to flip the sign and lock the door, and then ushered the other angel toward the seating area in the back. "Crowley, dear, we have company."

By the time the two angels came into the study, the demon was back on the couch, tapping on his phone and generally pretending he'd never gotten up. "Mm?" He tilted his head back to view them both, and then nodded to the peasant-dressed woman politely. "Ah, right. Hello." He then went back to playing with his phone.

"Tea would be welcome," Rachmiel replied to Aziraphale, and then she blinked at the demon. "And... you're Crowley, then? Lovely to meet you." There was only the faintest edge of wryness there, a needle toward the less-than-enthusiastic greeting she'd gotten.

"Ah. Don’t mind him," Aziraphale coughed. "He's shy around new people." It wasn't technically true, but it was polite. "Crowley, dear, do put your phone down.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose at his angel, but obliged all the same and tucked his phone into his jacket pocket.

“Thank you. Now, this is the angel Rachmiel; she's an old friend of mine, back from when I was inducted into the Principality rank.” Aziraphale smiled at her. “I'm going to put the kettle on. Would you like a cup?"

"I'd love one," Rachmiel replied, returning the smile, and then Aziraphale hurried off.

Very slightly, Crowley smiled to himself. That was definitely Rachmiel, right down to the subtle barbs. Sitting up, he extended his hand towards her and devoted a proper bit of attention in her direction. "Hello, Rachmiel. I'm pleased to meet you as well, I'm sure. Heard of me, have you?"

The small angel only hesitated for a moment before taking Crowley's hand in her surprisingly firm grip and shaking it. "I have, yes. I have heard quite a lot about you over the years, Demon Crowley. Oh, but I will explain about that when Aziraphale gets back." Rachmiel released the demon and took a seat in one of Aziraphale’s French Provincial chairs, canting her head curiously and taking in the cluttered, massive _presence_ that was the bookshop.

Crowley was unable to stop eyeballing the other angel, trying to suss out the meaning behind this unexpected visitation. Evidently, she had no personal knowledge of him or their encounter from Before, which was a good thing - the last thing he needed was to explain that away to Aziraphale. But the high-pitched undertone of anticipation and excitement Rachmiel radiated gave him a little hope that it was good news she was bringing to Aziraphale's doorstep.

After about ten minutes, Aziraphale returned from the kitchenette with biscuits and fruit on a formica tray that had been hiding under the sink for the last 60 years, still as pristine as the day it was molded. "Tea's on - it'll just be a little longer." He moved one of the side-tables over and put the tray on it, rubbing his hands together once they were empty. "And then, Rachmiel, you can tell us what brings you here. Unless this is a social visit, which I wouldn't mind at all, but I do have my curiosity."

"You always have," the other Principality remarked with a knowing smile.

Crowley snorted and helped himself to a few apple slices, sitting back to hear what Rachmiel had to say.

"That is," Rachmiel amended, "I _am_ here for a reason, and it's not entirely not a social call, either. After what we saw and heard upstairs, I just had to come see for myself. I had to know that you were alive, and the stories were true." She looked at Crowley as well, "That you were both here."

 _Oh. Well,_ the demon thought. He supposed that followed. If their places were swapped, Crowley himself would definitely be paying a visit just to confirm whether or not half the bogus stories he'd heard were true. 

"Oh, indeed? I don't know what the stories going about upstairs are, but they're probably all true." Aziraphale smiled mischievously at Rachmiel. "I'll be right back with the tea." And he went back upstairs to fetch their drinks.

There was a much shorter pause before Aziraphale returned with three cups and a small silver creamer. "I'm sorry," He began, setting Crowley's down first (three sugar) then his own, (two cream, one sugar), and finally Rachmiel's (plain). "I wasn’t sure how you took yours, so..." He put the creamer down, and then fished a handful of packets of sugar out of his pocket (suspiciously from three different cafes). “I brought these as well.”

"That's very thoughtful of you." Rachmiel couldn't help but look amused at how hard her once-coworker was trying. It was sweet. "Please, just sit with us. Don't worry about me."

Settling himself back in his armchair, Aziraphale rested his teacup on one knee and a couple of fruit cremes on the other. "Pardon my fussing. I - well, _we_ \- very rarely get guests."

Crowley offered soft thanks when he received his cup, letting their eyes meet briefly and smiling just a little, before blowing on his tea and taking an experimental sip. Ooh, too hot. He lowered it to sit on his knee as his companion had, content for now to merely enjoy the heat in his palms. At the mention of guests (or lack of them) he nodded in agreement. Customers would flit in and out like moths, and Archangels liked to appear from nowhere like the complete wankers they were, but legitimate social calls from friends were... gosh, Crowley couldn't even recall the last one. And Rachmiel was an old coworker, which explained why his angel was going out of his way to be hospitable towards her. "So... what are they saying about us upstairs?"

"Yes, I'm curious about that myself," added Aziraphale. “I can’t imagine they’ve been too keen on the both of us quitting and running off together.” The angel turned and gave Crowley a wink.  
  
At that, the demon felt blood rush up his neck and just barely willed it to stay out of his face. All the same, he looked a bit bashful. Together. Yes, they were here _together,_ weren't they? It was one thing to know it, and quite another to hear it said to someone else. But then he refocused on their guest.

Rachmiel finished adding cream to her tea and then set the silver vessel down, straightening in her chair. "You’d be surprised. Really, you’re legends,” she remarked. “First of all, they’re claiming you survived being literally _executed_ , that you're both immune to holy water and hellfire, that you're... some sort of half-fallen hybrid angels with strange and unknowable powers." She paused, catching her breath. Aziraphale, meanwhile, was trying to keep a straight face. Crowley was making no such effort and grinned gleefully at each rumour.

Rachmiel continued, "And that your union was blessed by the Almighty Herself specifically to spite Lucifer. Oh there's dozens!" She laughed then. "Frankly, I cannot imagine any of those are true! Except that, somehow, you were alive, and you were here - together."

By that point, the serpent was grinning like an absolute tit, lips stretching wider with each new rumor listed - and that last one made him burst out laughing. "Ha! If the Almighty's blessed this union, I’ve yet to receive the celebratory bouquet.” Both Aziraphale and Crowley chuckled to themselves for a moment, and then Crowley continued, "But there is some truth in there: we _did_ get put on trial and then got out of it. Took a bath in holy water, m'self." He sipped his tea, letting that information soak in. "And before you ask: no, I won't tell you how we did it."

The petite angel looked equal parts frightened, delighted, and skeptical upon learning this, her dark blue eyes wide and sharp. "Oh, really? Well, it is good to know it was not all just lies and gossip." She gave the demon an appraising look, before continuing, "The reason I am here is because there is something I think you need to know." She picked up her cup and sipped from it. "After the Grigori[15] were cast out, other angels were assigned to replace them as watchers of Earth. Nanael, Vehuel, and I were also tasked with watching, well, you. Not all the time, and not closely, but we had the job of monitoring your miracle use and movements. I suppose Haniel had us do it because we all knew you.”

"You were watching?" Aziraphale chuckled quietly. "I knew someone was, and what a blessing that it was you. That really does answer a lot of questions."

Rachmiel nodded, and then continued, “So we did our job: we watched, and we reported what we had to. And we also noticed Crowley. For hundreds of years, we have been distantly observing you two. Because you gave us all hope. So when I heard that you'd finally figured it out, I had to know. I... needed to know if we could- " She stopped, cleared her throat, overcome with the effect of emotion on a body she wasn't used to having, "Oh, this feels terrible," she muttered picking up her tea, using its warmth to relax her throat.

“Take your time, my dear,” soothed Aziraphale.

Crowley was starting to remember why Rachmiel had decided to approach him Before, and why she was approaching them now, after centuries of watching them - she was trying to find the partner that she'd lost during the Fall, and had been unable to find ever since. And Aziraphale was right: they'd both been able to sense Heaven's eyes watching, and yet no punishment had ever befallen them for their Arrangement or other meetings until very recently. Rachmiel and her peers, loyal to Aziraphale, had seen to it. Crowley had felt grateful to her Before, but felt so again in this timeline for a very different reason. After she’d calmed herself, he said gently, "What was it you needed to know could be done?" It was the most friendly towards her that he'd been since she set foot in the door.

“Ah, right.” Rachmiel steadied herself, seeming more at ease around the demon now. "That we could bring them back - the Fallen." She idly fidgeted with her cup. "If we brought them up from Hell, maybe we could bring them back. You have Risen, Demon Crowley - not to Heaven, but to Earth. If you could do that, then- well, maybe others could as well, if we let them." She looked to Aziraphale. "There are so many of us who lost parts of ourselves during the Fall. Do you remember? Do you feel it? We had mates who doubted, who wanted answers - and when they fell, it was like having the pinions ripped from our own wings. They just told us to let go and forget, but how could we? It was hard enough to grieve in secret." After a pause, another mouthful of tea swallowed, Rachmiel went on. "But things are different now. The old ways are being overthrown, and the power of the Archangels is being openly questioned. And, because of you, so is everything angels were indoctrinated to believe about the Fallen. Those of us in the Watch have known this for millennia, and maybe, finally, we'll be allowed to tell the rest."

Crowley’s eyes widened and he felt the hair rise on his arms. Had the pair of them accidentally set another revolution in motion? The idea of such a thing pleased him and troubled him in equal measure. If that was the case, then surely Heaven wouldn't leave them alone... at least, not for long. And, surely, more angels would Fall - or simply be destroyed. Many more. “Causing quite a stir then, I’d imagine.”

"Oh, it's surprisingly civil, really," the smaller angel exposited. "A lot of shuffling around of paperwork, a lot of information being reevaluated. The lower echelons don't even know it's happening yet. But the Archangels’ iron grip is wavering. The truth is coming out, and we can only hope that the Metatron will hear us." 

Crowley nodded. So the revolution was still in the underground stage. Good to know. The demon tilted his head at the smaller angel, looking speculative. "You mentioned angels who lost 'mates' in the Fall. Was there.... rather, _is_ there still someone who Fell, that you were hoping to see again?"

Aziraphale shushed Crowley. "Honestly! That’s a very personal question!"

Crowley made a face at his partner, but he shushed.

Rachmiel seemed a bit startled, but then chuckled and waved away her friend’s concern. "No, no, it is quite all right. And, as a matter of fact, there is someone. You have cut to the meat of the matter, somehow." She couldn’t help but privately wonder if the demon had been using some of those famous 'wiles' on her, reading her desires. "Like many others, I lost my mate. Her name was Usiel; you would know her now as Ouzza. I finally have hope that I might see her again, as she once was, because of you and your love, and what you have done."

"What we've done." Aziraphale blushed in amazement. "Defying the plan, yes. I suppose that would ruffle some feathers. Oh, that's not good. They'll blame us - they already blame us, but that was just an inconvenience. This? Oh, dear." He looked at Crowley sadly, who was frowning worriedly. "Perhaps we won't have as much time as we thought." 

Rachmiel smiled knowingly. "Oh, I would not be too worried. Our little team within the Watch did a bit of work on your behalf - well, a lot of work. It is very safe to say that I do not think anyone will be thinking much about you two for a good long while. There is so much going on right now, who knows where this or that record went? It is so very chaotic!"

The demon blinked and then he smirked and rested his chin in his palm. "Chaotic, indeed.” While it was sensible to share his angel's worry at the prospect of Heaven coming after them again, at least Rachmiel had assuaged some of their fears with the news that they'd rather miraculously been lost in the shuffle of celestial paperwork. "I suppose we should thank you for that, though I do wonder what consequences you'd have to deal with if Heaven were to discover these little, er, clerical errors. Still, all the same, we're grateful."

"Yes, we are,” agreed Aziraphale emphatically. Then he paused, awkwardly putting the pieces together. “Am I to understand, then, that you've done all this for us because you want us to help raise your Fallen companion from Hell?” He looked troubled. “We _are_ terribly grateful to you, Rachmiel, but I truly don't know how we would do that. Or if the demon we retrieve would ever be... well, the person you lost."

"Aziraphale, my friend, you misunderstand,” the other Principality replied warmly. “We did it for you because we love you. We wanted you to be happy because of what you are - both of you.” Her voice trembled very slightly. “I- I do not think any of us ever thought we would have a chance to save them. We were awaiting the end of the world, the War to End All Wars, and trying to make peace with the reality that we might only ever see our loved ones again at the moment one or both of us must die. But things have changed." 

Rachmiel’s tone sharpened. "To be honest, the others do not know I am here, or that I am asking what I am about to ask - I doubt they would have let me leave if they did. So I must not dally much longer.” She clutched her cup in both hands, subtly shaking. “Just… please, help us. Help them. We have to _live_ now; we have to keep going on without the lies and the Plan to hold us up. How many Angels are going to have to remember, to face that loss again, with no hope going forward?” Her eyes seemed fathomless as she looked imploringly at her hosts. “You can give them hope!"

This conversation was heading exactly where Crowley had anticipated, for once, and he felt his stomach turning, wishing he'd been wrong. Rachmiel had seen the potential between the two of them, the bond that they'd somehow forged between them despite one of them Falling, and now wanted to take that potential and turn it into something that rivaled the four winds of Heaven. He couldn't blame her. Were he in her position, with the chance to recover someone precious he thought he'd lost forever, he would do the same - hell, he _had_ done the same. And if more angels and demons who'd once been together could be reunited, if more of his kin could Rise, then that could change everything for the better. The only problem was the risk it posed, particularly to Aziraphale. Crowley was already Fallen, but Aziraphale was not. And with the other timeline (and thus his promises to Rachmiel) erased by Camazotz, the demon didn't feel especially inclined to jeopardize the peaceful and happy arrangement they'd just barely saved from extinction. And yet... he was keeping his thoughts to himself, but tapping his finger and glancing at his angel with obvious anxiety.

Aziraphale had listened carefully to Rachmiel's plea, and he looked deeply sympathetic. He clearly wanted to help her, very much, but he turned to Crowley and asked, "Dear, if we wanted to help them, would you know any way to get other demons out? Even if it were against the demon's will? Because I don't. I don't know how to help."

"Well," Crowely mused. "A summoning would be the most obvious tactic. I can't make any promises for how each demon will react to it, or look, or act towards you-" He nodded to Rachmiel. "-but it's the fastest and most direct way to bring a demon up from below without drawing too much attention. Otherwise, I'd have to sneak downstairs myself and go through the records by hand, and Someone only knows how long that would take."

“No, no.” Aziraphale made a flapping, somewhat exasperated gesture. "That's not what I mean, dearest. Not just physically out, but out of Hell's grasp entirely - of its influence."

"Well, bloody say that next time," the demon grumbled at Aziraphale, without any real venom. 

Rachmiel cleared her throat, drawing their attention back to her. "That part is already being handled and our numbers grow daily. No, I would not think to put either of you in harm's way like that. What I'm asking is that you merely talk to them. This place is safe at the moment. When everything is settled again, maybe someone will figure out what we did, but right now, it's safe. Let them come - talk to them, tell them the truth. Let them see."

Crowley leaned toward Rachmiel, elbows on knees, teacup held in his hands. "So in other words, you want us to be living examples, and spread the word of our defiance in secret, to weaken Heaven's influence and help more demons Rise."  
  
“Simply put, very much like that.” Rachmiel agreed.

"Yeah, uh... I hear you, but, um..." Crowley tapped his nails a few times and then caught Aziraphale's eye, flicking his own head to the side. "Angel, a word?"

“Oh, of course.” Aziraphale carefully set his teacup aside and followed his partner to the front of the shop, leaving Rachmiel to her own devices for a moment. “You have concerns, my darling?”

The demon still wasn’t used to the pet names, but his unsettled stomach was overriding his bashfulness. "Well... what do you think?" he whispered, looking quite anxious now. Rachmiel’s ‘halfway house’ proposal was sound enough. Crowley had been spreading ideas that contradicted Heaven for centuries by this point, and he considered himself quite capable of putting that plan into action. All the same, it was a hefty gamble. "Look, I understand where she's coming from, I do - but it’s a risky thing, what she’s asking. I thought we were going to- you know, fly below the radar for a while, not invite demons over for dinner."

Aziraphale dithered, wringing his hands in his habitual way. "I know, I know, but... would it really be so bad? We'd be talking to both angels and demons, I'd wager. They just need a safe place to go when they're at their most vulnerable." He glanced back at his ex-coworker, then had an idea. "Look, my dear, think of it this way: we'd be defying both Heaven and Hell, _and_ doing something worthy at the same time. You’d like that - I know you would. That could be our new purpose.” 

Crowley was pacing in a lazy circle around the angel, as was _his_ habit, and made a series of low grumbling noises in response. Aziraphale did have a point: with all the spare time they had now, why not spend it causing a regular bit of trouble? And if he could continue to make good on his promise to Kukulkan by helping to weaken Yahweh's influence, while also improving the lives of other angels and demons, _and_ still get to spend quality time with Aziraphale while doing all of this… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. “I don’t want this to eat up all our attention and free time, angel.”

Aziraphale hummed. That was a fair concern. “We'll just have to set some ground rules, then. About how often they can visit, and what hours, and so forth.”

“And stick to them,” Crowley stopped pacing, placing himself in front of his angel. “That’s important to me, dove, that we have lots of time for just us. I do want to help others, but I have my priorities. At the end of the day, the only thing I really care about is you.” 

The angel blushed bright red, stammering a bit. “Yes, well- qu-quite so.” He coughed. “Why don’t we say ‘no guests when the shop is closed, and no more than, say... three at a time’?"

The demon turned that suggestion over in his head, then squinted slightly. "Two at a time. One each. Just in case something goes tits-up."

The grin that spread on Aziraphale's face betrayed him. He'd pitched high just to haggle down, and he'd gotten what he wanted. "Wonderful, darling. How about we ask for some time to ourselves before they start coming? I think we’ve earned a vacation, don't you? A year, maybe two - we could go somewhere nice. Ah! I used to keep a villa in Southern Spain; it was one of my favorite places in the entire world. Have I ever mentioned it to you? Oh you'd love it." He beamed at the demon, full of life and joy and, perhaps, purpose.

The expression of glowering defeat on Crowley’s face showed his awareness of once again playing right into the angel's hands. It did soften, however, at the mention of a vacation at the Cordoban villa, gradually becoming somewhat bittersweet. "That sounds perfect, angel. We could do with some fresh air." Then he grinned and leaned in to whisper, "Let's bring that special list with us." Giving his partner a saucy wink, he turned to saunter back to the study.

"Oh, goodness me," murmured Aziraphale, but he was smiling and his celestine eyes were morning-bright. "Yes, let's." He followed his demon, his mate, into the back room, so that they could tell Rachmiel of their decision together; from that point on, he would ensure that they made all their decisions together.

Including the decision to buy a home together when they were ready to start working on their new project: somewhere outside of London where they could finally find some peace. Aziraphale would keep the bookshop as a front, a meeting place for the growing number of angels and demons who needed help and hope. The shop’s upstairs flat would become a refuge for the frightened, the grieving, the needy. They also discussed using Crowley’s apartment as an office, a hub for communication and arranging help for the refugees. There were hundreds of them, from every order and rank, angels and demons seeking to reclaim the lives and the freedoms that had been taken from them. And two by two, they would find themselves at the door of a shabby little bookshop in Soho.

Change was inevitable, Crowley knew this well. Change was ongoing, and necessary, and this was just the beginning. As Yahweh's grasp weakened, her devoted angels and human followers would grow more zealous, more dangerous - and there were other beings in the universe who were waiting for Her to fail. Eventually, there _would_ be a reckoning. 

But... until then, his beloved would be at his side, and there was plenty of work to do.

*******

**\- END PART 1: AND YOU SHALL BE EURYDICE -**

15 The Grigori, also known as Iyrin or Watchers, were the first group of angels sent to watch over the Earth. They became fallen after intermarrying with human women, but it is unclear if they were being punished for teaching humanity forbidden knowledge, or for siring a race of human-angel hybrids (the 'Nephilim'). [return to text]


End file.
